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Tke 
Mermaid    of   Druid    Lake 

AND 

OTHER  STORIES 

BY 

CHARLES  WEATHERS  BUMP 

Author  of  "His  Baltimore  Madonna,"  etc. 


COMPANY 
BALTIMORE 

19O6 


Copyright  1906  by  Charles   ^Veathers  Bump 

All  rights  Reserved 

Acknowledgement  is  Given  to  the  Baltimore 
News  for  Aid  in  Reprinting  these  Stories 


Preoswork  by 

The  Horn-Shafer  Company 
Baltimore,  Md. 


PS 


Twelve  More   Stories 


The  Mermaid  of  Druid  Lake 5 

•:      The  Goddess  of  Truth 18 

'       A  Daughter  of  Cuba  Libre 30 

A  Two-Party  Line 43 

c\* 

Timon  Up  to  Date  57 

>  The  Night  that  Patti  Sang 67 

An  Island  on  a  Jamboree 81 

Alexander  the  Great 93 

6       Breaking  Into  Medicine /^A....^ 104 

The  Pink  Ghost  of  Franklin  Square ....  119 

O 

g       The  Vanished  Mummy  127 

U       "Mount  Vernon  1-0-0-0" 139 

Si 


449771 


The  f'ermaid  of  Druid  Lake 

If  Edwin  Horton  had  not  had  a  sleep- 
less time  that  hot  June  night  it  probably 
would  never  have  happened.  As  it  was, 
after  tossing  and  pitching  on  an  uncom- 
fortably warm  mattress  for  several  hours, 
he  had  dressed  himself  and  left  his  Bol- 
ton-avenue  home  for  a  stroll  in  Druid 
Hill  Park  just  as  the  dawn  made  itself 
evident.  That  was  the  beginning  of  the 
adventure. 

Not  a  soul  was  in  sight  when  he 
reached  the  driveway  around  the  big 
lake,  and  he  let  out  to  take  a  little  vig- 
orous exercise,  breathing  in  the  fresh 
air  with  more  enjoyment  than  had  been 
his  for  some  hours. 

About  half  way  around  he  stopped  sud- 
denly and  rubbed  his  eyes  to  make  sure 
he  was  not  dreaming.  For  a  curve  in 
the  road  had  brought  him  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  not  alone  in  his  appreciation 
of  the  early  morning  hour.  Seated  be- 
side the  water,  on  the  rocks  that  line  the 
lake  shore,  was  a  damsel — a  rather  good- 
looking  one,  as  well  as  he  could  judge  at 
the  distance  of  a  hundred  yards.  She 
was  leaning  on  her  left  elbow  and  look- 
ing out  over  the  lake  in  rather  a  pen- 
sive, dreamy  attitude.  Of  course,  young 
ladies  don't  ordinarily  get  up  before 
dawn  to  go  out  to  Druid  Hill  Park  for 
the  purpose  of  sitting  alone  beside  the 
broad  sweep  of  city  water,  and  Edwin 
naturally  felt  some  surprise  at  the  nov- 


THE  MERMAID  OF  DRUID  LAKE. 

elty  of  the  sight.  Besides,  she  was  in- 
side the  high  iron  railing,  and  he  won- 
dered how  she  had  got  there. 

In  the  intensity  of  his  interest  he 
slowed  down  his  pace  as  he  drew  nearer 
along  the  roadway.  Should  he  watch  her 
unobserved  for  a  while  to  ascertain  her 
purpose?  Should  he  frankly  hail  her  and 
ask  whether  she  objected  to  company? 
Should  he— well,  the  damsel  settled  his 
doubts  for  him  just  then  by  discovering 
him.  She  appeared  startled,  and  he  fan- 
cied she  half  meant  to  plunge  into  the 
lake.  Then  she  changed  her  mind,  gave 
him  a  bewitching  little  smile  and  raised 
her  free  hand  to  beckon  him.  Edwin 
needed  no  second  invitation.  The  novel- 
ty of  the  situation  was  too  alluring  to 
resist. 

In  another  moment  he  had  scaled  the 
fence  and  was  clambering  awkwardly 
down  the  rocks.  And  as  he  came  close 
he  found  her  a  very  pretty  damsel  in- 
deed, with  youthful,  rosy  cheeks,  fetch- 
ing blue  eyes  and  long,  light  tresses 
that  hung  unconflned  from  her  head 
down  upon  the  sloping  rocks  behind  her. 
She  was  smiling,  and  yet  he  thought  he 
detected  a  renewed  disposition  to  slip 
away  from  him  before  he  had  drawn  too 
close. 

Then  he  had  a  shock. 

She  was  only  half  a  woman! 

The  other  half  of  her  was  fish— scaly 
fish — partly  submerged  in  the  waters  of 
the  lake! 

He  paused  irresolutely.  It  was  all 
right,  you  know,  to  read  about  mermaids 
in  old  mythologies  and  fairy  tales.  But 
to  encounter  one  in  this  year  of  Our 


THE  MERMAID  OF  DRUID  LAKE. 

Lord,  so  near  home  as  Druid  lake!  Oh, 
fudge!  the  boys  at  the  Ariel  Club  would 
never  get  through  "joshing"  him  should 
he  ever  say  he  had  seen  such  a  thing.  It 
could  not  be  true;  it  was  too  amazing! 
He  was  a  fool  to  let  his  nerves  get  the 
better  of  him.  He  had  better  cut  out 
those  visits  to  the  river  resorts,  or  next 
he  would  be  seeing  pink  elephants  climb- 
ing trees.  First  thing  he  knew  he  would 
wake  up  in  that  stuffy  room  at  home. 
No,  he  couldn't  be  dreaming!  There  was 
the  railing,  and  the  lake,  and  the  white 
tower,  and  General  Booth's  home,  and 
the  Madison-avenue  entrance,  and  the 
Wallace  statue  and  a  dozen  other  fa- 
miliar spots  in  a  most  familiar  per- 
spective. 

And  there,  too,  was  the  damsel  in  flesh 
and  blood,  or,  rather,  flesh  and  fish! 

She  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Good  morning  to  you,  stranger." 

She  spoke  English— good,  clear  mother- 
tongue.  Her  lips  were  parted  in  that  al- 
luring smile,  and  her  manner  was  as 
saucy  as  that  of  any  fair  flirt  he  had 
ever  known  of  womankind. 

"In  the  name  of  Heaven,  who  are 
you?"  he  stammered  as  he  sat  down, 
awkwardly,  beside  her. 

She  laughed  outright— mischievously, 
mockingly. 

"I?  I  am  the  nymph  of  the  lake.  Long 
years  ago  I  was  the  naiad  of  the  wood- 
land spring  that  is  now  deep  down  yon- 
der," indicating  a  spot  out  in  the  lake. 
"But  they  dammed  me  in  and  turned 
great  floods  of  water  in  here,  and  mighty 
Jupiter  gave  me  my  new  title." 

"And  are  you  really  half  fish?" 


THE  MERMAID  OF  DRUID  LAKE. 

She  laughed  again. 

"I  am  what  you  see." 

As  she  spoke  she  gracefully  swayed 
the  lower  half  of  her  in  the  water.  A 
million  glistening  scales  prismatically  re- 
flected the  increasing  morning  light.  She 
was  half  fish,  all  right.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  that. 

"By  gosh!  here's  a  rum  go!"  muttered 
Edwin  to  himself. 

"What  did  you  say?"  queried  the  mer- 
maid. 

"I  said,  if  you  must  know,  'By  Jove! 
you  are  a  beauty,'  "  he  replied,  gallantly 
and  impetuously. 

The  mermaid  smiled  again.  The  femi- 
nine half  of  her  was  pleased  with  the 
compliment  to  her  good  looks. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  a  sad  flatterer,"  she 
said,  coquettishly.  She  lowered  her  blue 
eyes,  then  uplifted  the  lashes  and  looked 
full  into  his  face  in  a  manner  that  made 
his  heart  bound.  One  little  finger  was 
shaken  playfully  at  him.  Edwin  seized 
the  hand.  It  was  warm;  human  blood 
pulsated  through  it!  And  as  he  held  it 
his  companion  gave  Just  a  bit  of  a 
squeeze.  A  score  of  girls  had  done  the 
same  in  bygone  sentimental  hours.  But 
none  so  deftly. 

"This  is  certainly  an  odd  adventure," 
he  remarked.  "Tell  me,  lady  of  the  lake, 
do  you  often  sit  here  in  this  unconven- 
tional fashion  with  gentlemen  callers?" 

"What  would  you  give  to  know?"  she 
asked,  teasingly. 

"You  are  the  first  for  a  long,  long 
time,"  she  went  on.  "Last  summer  there 
was  a  man  in  a  gray  uniform  who  saw 
me,  but  he  looked  so  uninteresting  I 


THE  MERMAID  OP  DRUID  LAKE. 

swam  away." 

"When  are  you  here?"  he  asked,  ear- 
nestly. 

"I  love  to  sit  on  the  bank  when  fair 
Aurora  makes  the  dawning  day  grow 
rosy,"  she  acknowledged,  "but  I  have  to 
flee  to  the  depths  when  the  full  sun 
comes."  She  looked  to  the  east.  "It  is 
growing  late,"  she  added,  hurriedly;  "I 
must  be  going." 

"Not  yet,  not  yet,"  he  pleaded. 

"Do  not  detain  me,"  she  cried;  "I 
must  go.  It  means  life  to  me." 

Gracefully  she  glided  into  the  water  at 
his  feet. 

"You  will  come  tomorrow?"  he  asked. 

The  coquettish  mood  returned  to  her. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  as  with  long 
strokes  she  headed  for  the  centre  of  the 
lake.  Edwin  watched  intently  until  she 
had  gone  a  hundred  yards  and  more. 
Then  she  ceased  swimming,  kissed  her 
hand  to  him  and  dived  under  the  surface 
as  the  single  word  "Farewell"  floated 
over  the  water. 

It  seems  superfluous  to  remark  that  he 
was  in  a  trance  that  day.  His  father, 
at  the  breakfast  table,  jovially  prodded 
him  about  being  late,  until  he  barely 
caught  himself  on  the  verge  of  telling 
his  queer  secret.  And  so  absent-minded 
was  he  at  the  office  that  he  found  he 
had  entered  the  account  of  a  prosaic  old 
firm  as  "Mermaid  &  Nymph." 

Long  before  4  A.  M.  the  next  day  he 
was  at  the  lake.  The  waning  moon  was 
still  in  the  west  and  there  were  few 
signs  of  the  coming  day.  For  half  an 
hour  he  kept  his  vigil  alone,  and  had  al- 
most begun  to  think  his  piscatorial 


THE  MERMAID  OF  DRUID  LAKE. 

charmer  was  not  coming.  Then  sudden- 
ly he  espied  her  ont  in  the  lake,  swim- 
ming toward  him.  When  about  50  yards 
off  shore  she  hailed  him  jovially  and 
bade  him  go  around  to  the  white  tower. 
As  he  moved  along  the  driveway  she 
kept  him  company,  maintaining  the  pace 
with  graceful,  tireless  strokes  and  occa- 
sionally coming  nearer  to  exchange  a  re- 
mark. 

"What  made  you  change  the  trysting 
place?"  he  asked. 

"Love  of  change,  I  suppose,"  she  re- 
plied. "A  water  nymph  does  not  get 
much  chance  at  novelty." 

The  half  hour  they  spent  upon  the  wa- 
ter's edge  was  largely  one  of  sentimental 
banter  between  merry  maid  and  enam- 
ored man,  in  which  Edwin  reached  the 
conclusion  that  his  charmer  could  give 
cards  to  the  jolliest  little  "jollier"  in 
Baltimore.  She  asked  him  about  his  past 
and  present  girl  friends,  and  pouted  de- 
liciously  when  he  frankly  acknowledged 
them.  Finally  they  parted,  she  promis- 
ing to  appear  the  next  morning. 

The  third  meeting  started  a  chain  of 
events.  They  were  comfortably  chatting 
on  the  rocks  when  Edwin  heard  the 
chug-chug  of  an  automobile.  The  mer- 
maid clutched  his  arm  in  alarm.  "What 
are  those  horrid  things?"  she  naively  re- 
marked. "They  often  make  such  an  aw- 
ful fuss  I  can  hear  them  down  in  my 
cozy  corner." 

Edwin's  reply  was  suspended  while  the 
machine  passed  them.  The  two  men  who 
were  in  it  craned  their  necks  most  in- 
dustriously at  the  sight  of  a  pair  of 
lovers  out  so  early  and  seated  in  such  an 


THE  MERMAID  OF  DRUID  LAKE. 

unusual    spot    for    sentimental    couples. 

When  he  turned  to  make  the  explana- 
tions she  had  asked,  he  found  it  a  harder 
task  than  he  had  imagined.  Her  knowl- 
edge of  human  inventions,  of  worldly 
means  of  locomotion,  was  not  extensive, 
and  he  had  to  begin  with  the  A  B  C  of 
it  and  go  through  a  course  in  elementary 
mechanics.  After  the  forty-second  para- 
graph of  instructions  the  damsel  clapped 
her  hands  gleefully  and  cried: 

"It  would  be  great  fun  to  take  a  trip 
in  one!" 

"It  is  great  fun,"  declared  Edwin,  for 
a  moment  forgetting  to  whom  he  was 
talking. 

"But  then  I  couldn't  do  it!"  she  ex- 
claimed in  disappointment.  "I  couldn't 
leave  the  lake." 

The  unshed  tears  in  her  eyes  made  him 
ardent. 

"You  could  do  it  if  you  are  willing,"  he 
avowed,  earnestly.  "You  can  take  the 
water  with  you."  Visions  of  a  tank 
lady  in  the  "Greatest  Circus  on  Earth" 
came  to  him. 

"You  are  fooling  me,"  murmured  the 
mermaid.  And  she  pouted. 

Edwin  rose  to  the  occasion.  "I  am  not 
fooling,"  he  protested.  "It  would  not  be 
difficult  to  put  a  tank  of  water  in  the 

machine  for  you  to  put  your" He  was 

going  to  say  feet,  but  he  ended  his  sen- 
tence, stumblingly,  "your  other  half  in." 

In  her  joy  the  Lady  of  the  Lake  took 
his  cheeks  in  her  hands  and  gave  him 
an  impulsive  kiss.  "You  are  the  loveliest 
being  on  earth,"  she  said,  enthusiastic- 
ally. 

That  settled  it.    The  rest   of  the   con- 


11 


THE  MERMAID  OF  DRUID  LAKE. 

versation  that  morning  was  about  auto- 
mobiles, and  when  they  parted  it  was 
with  a  definite  assurance  on  his  part 
that  Edwin  would  be  on  hand  the  next 
morning  with  a  motor  car  suitably 
equipped  for  her  use.  It  was  only  when 
he  had  gotten  away  that  he  realized  the 
ridiculous  side  of  the  job  he  had  under- 
taken. He  could  get  an  automobile  all 
right.  Tom  Reese  was  a  good  friend, 
and  a  willing  one,  and  his  car  had  a  ton- 
neau  capacious  enough  to  accommodate 
the  ex-naiad  and  her  movable  pool.  But 
he  would  have  to  tell  Tom  the  whole 
peculiar  adventure  to  get  him  to  take  his 
auto  out  at  such  an  unearthly  hour. 

"He'll  think  me  clean  daft  when  I  un- 
fold it  to  him,"  said  Edwin  to  himself. 

And  Tom  did,  too.  He  laughed  loud 
and  long  when  Edwin  chose  what  he 
thought  to  be  a  propitious  moment  and 
began  his  confession.  "What  are  you 
stuffing  me  with?"  Tom  demanded,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes.  Edwin  renewed  his  ex- 
planations, only  to  bring  on  another  ex- 
plosion. "You'll  be  the  death  of  me  yet, 
old  fellow,"  asserted  Tom.  "You'd  bet- 
ter cut  out  those  absinthes."  Edwin 
added  details  most  earnestly.  "You're 
crazy,  boy,"  was  the  only  reply  he  got. 
He  grew  angry  and  hurt.  "Now,  Tom 
Reese,"  he  demanded,  "have  I  ever 
failed  you  when  you  wanted  my  help?" 
Tom  apologized  and  began  to  study  Ed- 
win with  intentness.  "Look  here,  Edwin 
Horton,"  he  said,  "if  there  is  any  such 
girl  at  Druid  lake  as  you  describe,  she's 
a  'fake  '  and  she's  got  you  strung  might- 
ily." Edwin  swallowed  this  dig  at  his  in- 
telligence peacefully.  He  saw  he  had 


12 


THE  MERMAID  OF  DRUID  LAKE. 

won.  "All  I  ask,  Tom,"  he  rejoined,  "Is 
that  you  will  take  me  out  in  the  car  and 
see  for  yourself."  Tom  gave  him  his 
hand.  "I'm  from  Missouri,  and  you'll 
have  to  show  me,"  he  chuckled. 

A  wash  tub  from  Mrs.  Reese's  cel- 
lar was  requisitioned  at  3  A.  M.  for  use 
as  a  tank.  After  it  had  been  lifted  into 
the  tonneau  a  hose  supplied  the  needed 
water.  "Climb  into  the  water  wagon," 
ordered  Tom,  and  he  threw  on  the  lever 
and  spun  out  to  Druid  Hill  Park. 

The  day  was  still  in  embryo  when  the 
lake  tower  was  reached.  But  the  nymph 
was  there.  Her  trim  blue  blouse  was 
still  wet  after  her  swim  ashore.  The 
morning  was  summery,  but  Edwin  had 
appreciated  that  the  ride  might  be  cold 
for  the  water  lady,  and  had  thoughtfully 
brought  his  sister's  raincoat. 

Tom's  astonishment  at  seeing  a  bona- 
fide  mermaid  was  balm  to  Edwin.  The 
lad  stood  open-mouthed  after  Edwin  had 
introduced  them.  In  fact,  he  was  so 
dumfounded  that  he  failed  to  notice  the 
hand  the  damsel  had  extended  to  him. 

"Come  on,  Tom,"  said  Edwin;  "there 
isn't  much  time." 

One  on  each  side,  the  two  boys  sup- 
ported the  nymph  as  she  cavorted  as 
gracefully  as  possible  up  the  rocks.  They 
hadn't  thought  of  the  iron  railing. 
"Caesar's  ghost!"  muttered  Tom  in  dis- 
may. "How  are  we  going  to  get  her  over 
that?"  Edwin  turned  to  the  mermaid. 
"If  you  don't  mind,"  said  he.  "we  will 
have  to  lift  you."  "I  don't  mind,"  she 
said,  simply,  "if  you  don't  drop  me." 

At  Edwin's  suggestion  he  clambered 
over  first,  and  then  Tom  raised  the 


THE  MERMAID  OF  DRUID  LAKE. 

young  creature  boldly  until  she  was  clear 
of  the  iron  spikes.  There  Edwin  took 
hold  of  her  and  carried  her  to  the  auto. 
She  was  not  a  heavy  burden,  but  her 
wet  condition  and  her  combination  shape 
increased  the  difficulties. 

From  the  moment  she  was  once  in  the 
auto  her  joy  was  a  pleasure  to  observe. 
She  began  by  expressing  her  delight  at 
their  thoughtfulness  in  supplying  the 
wash  tub.  When  the  machine  began  to 
move  she  clapped  her  hands  in  childish 
glee.  From  glee  to  wonderment  her 
mood  changed  as  they  spun  along  the 
park  roads.  A  hundred  naive  questions 
were  asked  about  the  objects  unfamiliar 
to  a  lady  whose  habitat  was  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a  big  pond.  Edwin  answered 
faithfully,  and  had  his  reward  in  his 
enjoyment  of  her  artlessness  and  win- 
someness.  Occasionally  Tom  looked 
round  to  share  in  it. 

At  a  good  clip  the  auto  was  run  out 
Park  Heights  avenue  and  back.  The 
dawn  seemed  most  kindly  disposed  to 
the  trio,  for  it  was  long  in  coming.  And 
when  they  had  reached  Pimlico,  Tom 
proposed  a  detour  by  way  of  Roland 
Park,  to  return  to  the  lake  across  Cedar- 
avenue  bridge.  The  damsel  hailed  it 
with  glee,  only  stipulating  that  she  must 
be  back  by  "sun-up." 

They  showed  her  the  turf  tracks  on 
either  side  as  they  bowled  along  Belvi- 
dere  avenue  eastward,  and  they  were 
still  engaged  in  explaining  to  her  the 
methods  of  horse  racing  when  Tom 
started  down  the  long  hill  beside  the 
Tyson  place,  Cylburn,  leading  down  to 
the  bridge  across  Jones'  Falls.  The  girl 


14 


THE  MERMAID  OF  DRUID  LAKE. 

Was  asking  questions,  with  her  bewitch- 
ing face  in  close  proximity  to  Edwin's, 
when  there  came  a  startling  interruption 
to  their  fun.  Tom,  again  greatly  inter- 
ested in  the  talk,  failed  to  notice  a  large 
boulder  in  the  road,  and  the  auto  shot 
over  it  with  a  jolt  that  caused  him  to 
lose  control  of  the  wheel.  The  big  ma- 
chine regained  its  balance,  but  not  its 
course.  Instead,  it  careened  to  the  right 
and  bumped  into  the  ditch  before  the 
alarmed  occupants  had  scarcely  grasped 
their  peril.  Tom  was  tossed  out  on  the 
roadway.  Edwin  was  pitched  into  the 
front  seat,  the  mermaid  shot  past  him 
and  fell  on  a  clump  of  green  turf  and  the 
tub  of  water  upset,  and,  in  seeking  an 
outlet,  poured  over  the  car,  drenching 
Edwin. 

"Look  out  for  a  gasoline  explosion!" 
shrieked  Tom,  raising  himself  from  the 
road,  apparently  unhurt.  Edwin  knew 
he  could  do  nothing  to  prevent  such  a 
catastrophe,  so  he  followed  the  other 
two  out  of  the  auto  as  quickly  as  he 
could.  For  a  moment  he  and  Tom  paid 
no  attention  to  the  mermaid,  so  absorbed 
were  they  in  the  possibility  of  a  blow- 
up. But  when  this  danger  had  appar- 
ently passed  they  discovered  that  she 
had  lifted  herself  from  the  grassy  sward 
and  was  flip-flopping  awkwardly  in  the 
direction  of  the  brook  that  runs  through 
Cylburn  near  the  road. 

"Come  back!  Come  back!  There's  no 
danger!"  called  Edwin,  as  he  started 
after  her. 

The  damsel  paid  no  heed.  She  was  in- 
tent on  getting  to  that  stream  of  run- 
ning water. 


THE  MERMAID  OF  DRUID  LAKE. 

Again  Edwin  called,  this  time  more 
sharply.  The  mermaid  stopped  not,  but 
turned  a  tearful  and  much  convulsed 
face  to  him. 

Edwin  raced  after  her.  So  did  Tom. 
But  when  they  got  to  the  edge  of  the 
brook  the  only  sign  of  her  was  an  in- 
creasing ripple  on  the  surface  of  a  little 
pool.  The  stream  was  not  so  deep  but 
that  the  bottom  could  be  studied.  And 
yet  they  saw  nothing  of  her.  Evidently 
she  had  the  enchanted  gift  of  being  in- 
visible in  water. 

Tom  looked  at  Edwin.  Edwin  looked 
at  Tom. 

"That  beats  the  Dutch!"  said  Tom. 

"It's  worse  than  that,"  replied  Edwin, 
an  odd  catch  in  his  voice.  "We  certainly 
have  queered  her  for  good.  We  must 
find  her  and  get  her  back  to  the  Park 
somehow." 

For  hours  they  moved  up  and  down 
alongside  the  stream,  calling  pleadingly, 
but  without  response,  for  their  quondam 
friend.  Edwin  made  a  little  oration  to 
her  in  absentia,  in  which  he  humbly 
begged  her  pardon  and  swore  by  all  the 
gods  of  Mount  Olympus — by  the  great 
Jupiter,  the  chaste  Diana  and  all  the 
rest  of  them,  as  far  as  he  could  remem- 
ber their  names — that  he  would  restore 
her  safely  to  the  lake.  But  she  came 
not.  Tom  added  his  entreaties,  but  she 
heeded  not.  Then  Tom  suggested  that 
perhaps  she  had  worked  her  way  down 
the  brook  and  into  Jones'  Falls,  whence 
she  could,  if  she  but  knew  the  pipes,  get 
into  her  beloved  lake  again.  Edwin 
jumped  at  the  idea,  and,  leaving  Tom  to 
look  after  the  auto,  hastened  down  the 


1C 


THE   MERMAID  OF  DRUID  LAKE. 

ravine  to  Jones'  Falls,  and  moved  up 
and  down  the  Falls,  calling  for  the  van- 
ished damsel  with  a  fervor  that  might 
have  caused  doubts  as  to  his  sanity  had 
anyone  heard  it. 

When  he  returned,  terribly  downcast, 
Tom  had  gotten  the  car  righted  and  had 
discovered  that  it  was  uninjured. 

"No  luck,  I  suppose?"  said  Tom. 

"No,"  replied  Edwin,  moodily. 

"Get  in,  then.  We  can't  stay  here  all 
day." 

Edwin  required  urging  to  leave  the 
spot.  Finally  he  consented  to  go.  As  he 
climbed  in  he  saw  the  overturned  wash 
tub,  and  his  concentrated  wrath  and 
grief  were  heaped  upon  it.  Picking  it  up, 
he  hurled  it  savagely  at  a  tree,  and,  when 
it  fell  to  pieces  with  the  concussion,  he 
exclaimed,  vehemently  and  inconsequen- 
tially: 

"That's  the  blamed  thing  that  got  us 
into  this  muss!" 

At  Druid  lake  he  insisted  on  another 
long  search.  Time  and  again  the  auto 
was  stopped  that  he  might  call  aloud  for 
his  charmer.  But  no  answering  sound 
came  across  the  water. 

"Curses!"  said  Edwin.  "I'm  afraid 
she's  lost  for  good." 

And  that  is  probably  the  true  explana- 
tion as  to  why  there  has  been  no  mer- 
maid in  Druid  lake  since.  She  may  be 
in  Cylburn  brook,  she  may  be  in  Jones' 
Falls,  she  may  have  reached  the  Pa- 
tapsco,  but  no  one  has  ever  seen  a  crea- 
ture answering  her  description  and 
aquatic  habits  since  the  damsel  who 
once  held  the  job  got  giddy  and  went 
motoring. 


17 


The  Goddess  of  Truth 

Not  everybody  was  pleased  among  the 
many  thousands  who  on  September  12, 
1906,  saw  the  industrial  parade  with  which 
Baltimore  celebrated  its  wonderful  re- 
covery from  the  blow  given  by  the  great 
fire  of  1904.  Tobias  Greenfield,  head  of  a 
Lexington-street  department  store,  was 
one  who  was  not.  He  was  angry,  vio- 
lently so.  He  had  been  in  a  chipper 
mood  all  morning  and  had  enjoyed 
watching  the  long  line  from  the  windows 
of  a  bedecorated  wholesale  house  on 
Baltimore  street.  But  when  his  eyes 
alighted  on  the  float  of  his  own  firm,  the 
anger  came.  And  the  longer  it  stayed 
with  him,  the  worse  it  grew,  especially 
as  he  could  not  escape  the  prodding  of 
the  friends  who  had  invited  him  to  their 
warehouse. 

When  he  could  decently  slip  away  from 
them  he  went  to  his  office  and  peremp- 
torily called  for  his  advertising  manager. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean,  Mel- 
vale,"  he  shouted,  "by  putting  such  a 
scrawny  little  girl  on  our  float  as  the 
Goddess?  She  looked  a  fright  in  the 
clothes  made  for  Miss  Preston,  and 
everyone  is  laughing  at  us.  Why  was 
not  Miss  Preston  there?  How  came  you 
to  make  such  a  mess?" 

The  advertising  man  was  nervous  un- 
der the  volley  of  questions,  but  he  ex- 
plained at  length.  Boiled  down,  it  was 
plain  he  could  give  only  one  reason  why 


is 


THE   GODDESS   OP   TRUTH. 

the  float  had  been  such  a  mess. 

And  that  reason  was  William  Henry 
Montgomery. 

Miss  Preston  had  been  willing  to  be 
the  Goddess,  as  planned,  but  William 
Henry  Montgomery  said  no.  And  that 
settled  it. 

And  who  was  William  Henry  Mont- 
gomery? Why,  Miss  Preston  loved  Wil- 
liam Henry  Montgomery. 

You  see,  down  on  the  Eastern  Shore  of 
Virginia,  where  Maude  Preston  and  Wil- 
liam Henry  Montgomery  were  to  the 
manor  born,  they  had  sought  each 
other's  company  so  assiduously  and  for 
so  long  that  in  the  length  and  breadth 
of  Accomac— from  Chincoteague  to  Great 
Machipongo — every  man  and  woman  re- 
garded it  as  a  sure  thing  that  Maude 
and  William  Henry  would  hit  it  off  for 
a  marriage.  And  they  had  talked,  as 
people  will,  about  their  being  an  ideal 
couple,  so  well  suited — William  Henry 
broad-shouldered  and  solidly  knit  and 
Maude  molded  on  classic  Diana's  lines, 
erect  and  queenly,  but  sweet  to  look 
upon.  The  women  thought  William 
Henry  a  fine-looking  lad,  while  men  and 
women  alike  regarded  Maude  as  the 
handsomest  creature  on  the  Peninsula 
below  the  Maryland  line. 

And  then  one  day  there  had  been  a 
quarrel.  Maude  thought  a  bit  of  Wil- 
liam Henry's  advice  too  assertive,  too 
near  to  an  injunction  to  obey,  and  had 
flared  up.  And  William  Henry  had  flared 
up  likewise.  And  when  the  two  came  to 
count  the  cost.William  Henry  was  mood- 
ily filling  a  job  in  a  cousin's  lumber- 
yard in  Philadelphia,  while  Maude,  un- 


19 


THE   GODDESS   OF   TRUTH. 

known  to  William  Henry,  had  come  to 
Baltimore  to  remove  herself  and  her 
heart-wound  from  the  well-meant,  but 
too  gossipy,  neighbors  in  Accomac. 

It  was  a  matter  of  only  a  few  months 
before  she  was  the  best-liked  saleswoman 
in  Greenfield  &  Jacobs'  big  store.  From 
Mr.  Greenfield  down  to  the  rawest  cash 
girl  all  were  glad  to  exchange  a  word 
with  her,  because  there  was  something 
delightful  in  Maude's  way  of  expressing 
even  trivialities,  and  an  especial  joy  in 
hearing  her  talk  about  "you  all"  and 
call  a  car  "kyar,"  a  girl  "giurl"  and 
other  idioms  peculiar  to  Tidewater  Vir- 
ginians. Besides  that,  she  was  too  good- 
looking  altogether  to  be  passed  without 
notice.  The  elevator  boys  were  both  in 
love  with  her,  and  their  seniors— whether 
clerks,  floor-walkers,  salesmen  or  own- 
ers— would  walk  two  aisles  out  of  the 
way  any  time  to  pass  by  Miss  Preston 
at  the  counter  where  she  disposed  of 
bolts  of  ribbon.  But  best  of  all  was  the 
regard  which  her  scores  of  girl  asso- 
ciates had  for  her.  They  liked  her  be- 
cause they  saw  she  made  no  effort  to 
seek  or  to  foster  the  attentions  which 
the  masculines  of  the  store  thrust  upon 
her.  They  liked  her,  too,  for  the  indi- 
viduality and  perfect  neatness  she 
showed  in  her  dress,  from  the  bows  of 
ribbon  on  her  short  sleeves  to  the  set 
of  her  skirts  or  the  way  her  waists  were 
arranged  at  the  belt.  As  for  her  hair, 
eight-ninths  of  the  store,  being  the  femi- 
nine portion,  envied  its  beautiful  wave, 
and  two-ninths  mustered  up  courage  to 
ask  Maude  how  she  managed  to  keep  it 
so  splendidly.  And  the  two-ninths,  being 


THE   GODDESS   OF   TRUTH. 

told,  let  the  other  six-ninths  into  the 
secret.  Thus  it  was,  in  Greenfield  &  Ja- 
cobs', that  the  Maude  wave  became  more 
popular  than  the  one  named  after  Mar- 
celle. 

And  all  the  while  Maude  quietly  went 
on  thinking  of  William  Henry.  She  heard 
about  him  sometimes  in  letters  from 
Accomac,  and  knew  that  he  was  still  in 
Philadelphia.  And  there  were  hours 
when  she  fought  the  temptation  to  write 
to  him  there,  and  humbly  tell  him  that 
she  had  been  wrong  to  grow  angry  with 
him.  Perhaps  he  had  forgotten  her  and 
was  having  a  good  time — she  recoiled 
from  the  thought,  and  yet  it  would  come 
now  and  then.  And  when  it  came,  Maude 
had  spells  of  the  "blues"  that  she  found 
hard  to  conceal  from  her  new-made 
friends  at  the  department  store  and  in 
her  boarding-house  on  Arlington  avenue. 

Greenfield  &  Jacobs  was  one  of  the 
first  retail  firms  to  take  up  the  notion 
of  having  a  float  in  the  Jubilee  parade. 
And,  having  once  decided  to  exhibit, 
they  went  at  the  preparations  with 
characteristic  thoroughness.  "Let  us  do 
it  right,"  said  Jacobs  to  Greenfield. 
"Let  us  spare  no  expense  to  have  a  car 
so  beautiful  that  all  Baltimore  will  re- 
member it  as  one  of  the  hits  of  the  pa- 
rade. Let  it  be  chaste  and  symbolic, 
and  not  overloaded  with  bunting  and 
people." 

The  head  of  the  firm  had  the  same 
thought.  "We  have  always  tried  to  tell 
the  truth  to  our  customers,"  he  rejoined. 
"Why  not  try  to  bring  that  fact  home  to 
thousands  by  a  float  on  which  a  hand- 


21 


THE   GODDESS   OF   TRUTH. 

some  Goddess  of  Truth  will  be  giving  a 
laurel  crown  to  our  firm?" 

"Capital!"  exclaimed  Jacobs.  "And 
Miss  Preston  can  be  the  Goddess." 

"I  had  her  in  mind  when  I  proposed 
it,"  remarked  Greenfield. 

And  both  men  laughed. 

Neither  partner  was  up  on  mythology, 
so  they  turned  over  to  Melvale,  the  ad- 
vertising man,  the  duty  of  working  out 
the  details  of  the  float.  Now,  Melvale 
wasn't  literary,  either;  but  he  knew  an 
obliging  young  woman  at  the  Pratt  Li- 
brary, and  he  hied  himself  to  her  to  ask 
who  under  Heaven  was  the  Goddess  of 
Truth  and  how  was  she  dressed.  And 
the  obliging  young  woman  looked  up 
encyclopedias  and  finally  handed  Mel- 
vale an  illustrated  copy  of  Spenser's 
"Faerie  Queene."  Melvale  had  never 
heard  of  Spenser,  and  he  had  an  idea 
that  Spenser  spelled  his  title  badly,  not 
even  according  to  the  simplified  method 
of  Roosevelt  and  Carnegie.  But  he  took 
the  book  and  read  of  the  beautiful,  pure 
and  trustful  Una,  the  personification  of 
Truth,  the  beloved  of  the  Red  Cross 
Knight.  And  when  he  looked  at  the  pic- 
tures he  began  to  grow  enthusiastic  over 
the  float. 

"By  George!"  he  exclaimed.  "Miss 
Preston  will  look  great  in  that  Greek 
gown." 

And  Melvale  sketched  the  float  as  it 
afterward  grew  into  being  at  the  hands 
of  carpenters,  painters  and  decorators  at 
the  old  car  shed  on  Pennsylvania  avenue. 
There  was,  first  of  all,  a  beautiful  little 
model  of  Greenfield  &  Jacobs'  new  store, 
about  three  feet  high,  over  the  corner 


THE   GODDESS   OF   TRUTH. 

dome  of  which  the  charming  Goddess, 
bending  forward,  was  about  to  place  the 
laurel  crown  suggested  by  Greenfield. 
Behind  her  were  finely  modeled  figures 
of  the  lion  and  the  lamb  which  are  de- 
voted followers  of  Una.  It  was  artistic; 
it  was  symbolic;  it  was  chaste.  There 
was  no  word  of  advertising  save  the 
neatly  lettered  inscription: 

The  Truth  stands  by  us. 
\         We  stand  by  the  Truth. 

It  was  a  harder  task  than  either  part- 
ner imagined  to  win  the  consent  of  Miss 
Preston  to  be  a  goddess  for  a  few  brief 
hours.  She  was  not  the  sort  of  girl  to 
like  conspicuousness  or  notoriety,  and 
she  flatly  refused  when  the  float  was 
first  brought  to  her  attention.  Then 
they  pleaded  with  her.  Jacobs  told  her 
how  much  she  would  be  helping  the  firm 
if  she  would  only  agree  to  oblige  them. 
Greenfield  promised  to  have  the  finest  of 
Greek  gowns  made  in  the  store's  dress- 
making department.  And  Melvale,  clever 
man,  deftly  told  her  how  beautiful  and 
good  Una  was  supposed  to  be,  and  mildly 
intimated  that  there  was  no  other  young 
woman  in  Baltimore  who  could  possibly 
fill  the  bill  on  that  float.  Ultimately 
Miss  Preston's  scruples  were  overcome. 

And  into  the  preparations  she  entered 
with  pleasing  enthusiasm.  Melvale  took 
her  several  times  to  the  shed  to  see  the 
float  materialize,  and  stopped  each  morn- 
ing at  the  ribbon  counter  to  tell  her 
about  details.  The  whole  store  told  her 
a  thousand  times  how  glad  each  was 
that  she  was  to  be  the  Goddess.  Green- 


2:; 


THE   GODDESS   OF   TRUTH. 

field  did  as  he  promised  about  the  cos- 
tume— and  never  was  Greek  gown  made 
of  more  beautiful  white  goods,  or  more 
exquisitely  and  perfectly  fitted.  Maude 
read  Spenser's  poem,  more  understand- 
ingly  than  had  Melvale,  and  the  Goddess 
of  Truth  so  completely  filled  her  mind 
during  those  summer  weeks  that  William 
Henry  Montgomery  was  almost  obscured 
except  when  she  dreamed  how  she  would 
like  him  to  see  her  triumph. 

At  last  came  the  day  of  the  parade. 
Melvale,  always  fertile  with  expedients, 
had  arranged  with  Townsend,  floor- 
walker on  the  fourth  floor,  who  lived  on 
Fulton  avenue  just  where  the  big  parade 
was  to  form,  that  the  Goddess  Maude 
might  array  herself  in  her  finery  at  his 
home.  Bright  and  early  that  morning  he 
sent  a  carriage  for  Miss  Preston,  and  or- 
dered the  float  to  be  at  Townsend's  curb 
by  9  o'clock.  The  beautiful  gown  and  its 
accessories,  laid  away  in  soft  tissue  pa- 
per, were  brought  from  the  Lexington- 
street  store,  and  a  couple  of  the  girls 
from  the  dressmaking  department  were 
on  hand  to  aid  the  final  making  of  a 
goddess. 

Maude  would  not  have  been  a  woman 
had  she  not  taken  her  time  to  get  into 
such  finery,  and  Melvale  began  to  grow 
nervous  as  the  parade  hour  grew  near. 
The  street  was  in  confusion  with  the 
gathering  of  floats  and  men  and  curi- 
ous crowds  of  onlookers.  The  chief  mar- 
shal of  the  procession,  Col.  William  A. 
Boykin,  had  warned  him  that  the  line 
was  to  move  on  time,  and  already  there 
were  signs  of  a  start.  Five  times  he 


24 


THE   GODDESS   OP   TRUTH. 

dived  into  the  hallway  of  Townsend's 
home  and  called  agonizingly  upstairs  to 
know  if  Miss  Preston  was  ready. 

Finally  she  came.  And  Melvale  held 
his  breath  as  the  beauty  of  the  girl 
burst  upon  him,  even  in  the  half-light 
of  the  hall.  While  it  concealed  some  of 
the  lines  of  her  figure,  the  gown  ac- 
centuated her  erect,  queenly  carriage. 
Her  exquisitely  molded  arms  and  her 
full,  round  throat  had  been  powdered,  a 
bit  or  two  of  rouge  had  heightened  the 
charm  of  her  face  and  a  touch  of  black 
had  increased  the  brilliancy  of  her  eyes, 
already  flashing  with  the  excitement  of 
the  moment.  There  was  a  tremulous 
curve  to  her  lips  as  she  glanced  at  Mel- 
vale  to  note  whether  he  was  pleased 
with  her  appearance. 

"The  goddess  of  men,  as  well  as  of 
truth,"  he  murmured  as  he  bent  over 
and  gallantly  kissed  her  hand.  Una's 
flush  heightened,  but  she  was  pleased 
with  the  compliment. 

Melvale  opened  the  door  and  the  god- 
dess in  white  passed  out  into  the  morn- 
ing sunlight  on  Fulton  avenue. 

And  as  she  did  so  she  gave  a  faint 
scream  of  surprise. 

For  there,  on  the  sidewalk,  was  Wil- 
liam Henry  Montgomery,  her  Red  Cross 
Knight. 

William  Henry  was  as  much  surprised 
as  the  damsel  Una.  He  had  no  idea  that 
Maude  was  nearer  to  him  than  Accomac, 
and  he  was  in  Baltimore  for  the  day 
merely  to  mingle  with  the  holiday  crowds 
and  perhaps  encounter  some  Eastern 
Shore  friend  from  whom  he  might  learn 
news  of  her.  His  presence  on  Fulton 


THE   GODDESS   OF   TRUTH. 

avenue  was  due  to  the  identical  reason 
as  that  which  inspired  thousands  of 
others  curious  to  see  the  start  of  a  big 
parade. 

When  he  saw  Maude  come  out  of  the 
doorway,  a  vision  in  white,  he  thought 
for  a  moment  he  had  gone  insane  and 
was  having  a  hallucination.  Then  he 
reflected  that  it  could  not  possibly  be 
Maude  Preston  in  Baltimore  and  wear- 
ing such  theatrical  clothes  on  the  street 
in  broad  daylight.  Then  he  looked  again 
and  was  certain  it  was  Maude.  Besides, 
hadn't  she  recognized  him  and  put  out 
her  arm  to  steady  herself  against  the 
arch  of  the  doorway? 

"Maude!"  he  exclaimed,  simply,  as  he 
hurried  up  the  marble  steps. 

"Bill  Henry!"  she  cried,  faintly. 

She  held  out  her  hands  and  he  took 
them. 

"I've  been  sorry  a  long  time,  Bill  Hen- 
ry," she  said. 

"And  I,  too,  sweetheart." 

He  would  have  kissed  her  in  complete 
reconciliation,  but  Maude  was  conscious 
of  the  crowd  on  the  street.  "Don't,  Bill 
Henry,"  she  whispered  as  she  laughed, 
flushed  and  tenderly  pushed  him  away. 
He  held  on  to  both  her  hands. 

Melvale,  in  the  vestibule  behind,  had 
stood  petrified  as  the  incident  developed. 
He  was  wise  enough  to  understand  that 
a  reconciliation  of  lovers  was  in  prog- 
ress. Their  words,  and,  above  all,  the 
ardency  of  their  glances  betrayed  that. 

From  down  Fulton  avenue  came  the 
sound  of  a  great  bell.  The  parade  had 
started.  "Hurry,"  said  Melvale,  "you 
must  take  your  position,  Miss  Preston." 


26 


THE   GODDESS   OF  TRUTH. 

"Take  your  position,  Maude?"  asked 
William  Henry  calmly,  ignoring  Melvale. 

"Yes,  Bill  Henry,"  said  his  sweetheart, 
hurriedly;  "I'm  to  be  the  Goddess  of 
Truth  on  that  float  there." 

William  Henry  turned  and  looked  at 
the  float.  Then  he  stood  off  a  step  or 
two  and  studied  Maude's  make  up.  "I've 
never  seen  you  look  handsomer,"  he  said, 
slowly,  "but  somehow  you  don't  seem 
natural.  I'd  rather  have  met  you  again 
when  you  were  not  so  full  of  paint  and 
powder.  I  loved  you  always  just  as  you 
were,  without  fancy  fixings." 

The  bell  was  getting  farther  away. 

"Come,  Miss  Preston,"  urged  Melvale. 
"We  will  have  to  hurry." 

For  the  first  time  William  Henry  rec- 
ognized the  presence  of  Melvale. 

"She  ain't  going,  Mister,"  declared 
William  Henry,  ungrammatically,  but 
firmly. 

"Not   going!"    screamed   Melvale. 

"Oh!  Bill,"  stammered  Maude,  "they've 
gone  to  such  a  lot  of  expense  and  trou- 
ble! And  they've  been  so  kind  to  me!" 

"I  don't  care,"  returned  William  Henry. 
"Down  in  Accomac  we  don't  like  this 
theatre  business  for  girls  we  love,  and 
I  tell  you  I  am  not  going  to  see  you  in 
that  parade,  showing  yourself  off  to  all 
Baltimore  and  thousands  more,  too. 
Who  knows  how  many  people  are  here 
from  down  home?  If  you  want  this  no- 
toriety and  fuss,  Maude,"  he  went  on 
sternly,  "I  can  leave  again." 

A  tear  made  its  way  out  of  Maude's 
eyes  and  threatened  the  rouge  on  her 
Cheek. 

"Come,  Miss  Preston,"  said  Melvale. 


THE   GODDESS  OF   TRUTH. 

"No,  no;  1  can't  go  against  what  Bill 
wants,"  she  said,  feebly;  "not  again." 

Melvale  saw  that  he  faced  a  serious 
business  dilemma.  Cupid  had  butt  in  at 
the  wrong  moment.  It  was  necessary 
for  Greenfield  &  Jacobs  to  be  in  that 
parade,  and  he  had  about  six  minutes 
to  get  the  float  in  line.  As  he  put  it  in 
his  report  to  Mr.  Greenfield,  "There 
wasn't  any  use  wasting  time  trying  to 
persuade  Miss  Preston  with  that  hulk- 
ing big  Eastern  Shoreman  menacing  me. 
I  had  to  let  her  do  as  William  Henry 
wanted,  without  bandying  words.  At  the 
same  time  I  had  to  find  another  Goddess 
in  a  hurry.  That's  how  I  came  to  make 
use  of  Townsend's  daughter." 

"Was  that  thin  girl  Townsend's  daugh- 
ter?" asked  Greenfield. 

"There  isn't  any  cause  to  be  hard  on  the 
girl,  Mr.  Greenfield.  She's  not  so  thin, 
and  she  is  good  looking  and  with  a 
sweet  expression.  You  put  any  girl  in 
clothes  not  made  for  her — just  jump  her 
into  'em  without  any  time  for  those  lit- 
tle tricks  that  women  know  so  well  how 
to  do — and  she's  sure  to  feel  a  guy.  And 
if  she  feels  a  guy,  she's  going  to  look  it. 
Why,  it  took  those  two  girls  just  six 
minutes  to  transfer  that  goddess  rig 
from  Miss  Preston  to  Miss  Townsend. 
She  didn't  have  time  to  powder,  and  she 
didn't  have  time  to  dab  on  paint,  and, 
besides,  she  had  had  no  rehearsals. 
That's  why  she  was  so  pale." 

"And  where  did  you  leave  Miss  Pres- 
ton and  her  mentor?" 

"Sitting  on  the  sofa  in  Townsend's 
parlor,  wondering  if  they  could  get  a  11- 


THE   GODDESS   OF   TRUTH. 

cense  to  be  married  today,  it  being  a 
holiday." 

"Mr.  Mel  vale,"  directed  Mr.  Green- 
field, "I  want  you  to  find  them  again, 
just  as  quick  as  you  can,  and  if  they  are 
not  already  tied  up  I  want  you  to  help 
them  do  it  in  the  most  handsome  style 
possible  in  a  hurry.  Reward  Miss  Town- 
send  nicely,  but  get  that  gown  from  her 
and  make  a  present  of  it  to  the  girl  it 
was  made  for.  She  might  like  to  have  it 
for  a  wedding  gown.  And  as  you  go  out, 
tell  Mr.  Strieker  to  send  the  bride  the 
handsomest  thing  he  can  find  in  the 
glass  and  china  department." 

"Miss  Preston'll  appreciate  all  that.  I 
think  she's  sorry  she  couldn't  help  you 
out.  She  has  certainly  missed  a  fine 
chance  of  being  a  goddess." 

"You're  wrong,  Melvale;  you're  wrong! 
That  girl  doesn't  need  a  Greek  gown  and 
a  float  and  a  parade  to  make  her  a  god- 
dess." 

"William  Henry  don't  think  so,  sir." 


A  Daughter  of  Cuba  Libre 

When  they  had  been  at  school  to- 
gether at  Notre  Dame,  Catherine  Frank- 
lin had  been  most  fond  of  the  company 
of  Manuela  Moreto,  and  had  listened 
with  wonder  and  admiration  to  the  fluent 
stories  of  the  dark-eyed,  olive-skinned 
girl  from  Cuba,  tales  of  her  father's 
desperate  adventures  in  the  trocha  in 
the  years  before  American  intervention 
had  rid  the  "Pearl  of  the  Antilles"  of 
Spanish  rule.  Spanish-American  pupils, 
daughters  of  wealthy  tobacco,  sugar  or 
coffee  planters,  were  not  infrequent  at 
this  and  other  convent  schools  around 
Baltimore,  and  Catherine  knew  enough 
of  them  not  to  yield  so  precipitately  as 
had  many  girls  to  the  romantic  glamour 
cast  around  them  by  their  coming  from 
a  strange  land.  But  Manuela  Moreto 
was  so  winning,  and  her  narratives  of 
bold  deeds  so  piquant,  that  Catherine 
had  taken  her  to  her  heart  in  a  school- 
girl friendship,  had  gloried  in  knowing 
the  daughter  of  a  Cuban  patriot  and  had 
liberally  bedewed  her  handkerchief  and 
made  vows  of  undying  love  when  their 
June  commencement  brought  the  days 
of  parting. 

But  that  had  been  five  years  ago,  and 
In  five  years,  as  everyone  knows,  havoc 
can  be  played  with  a  friendship  of  this 
sort.  There  had  been  a  correspondence, 
industrious  at  first,  then  flagging  as  each 
found  new  friends  and  new  interests, 


A   DAUGHTER   OF    CUBA  LIBRE. 

and  finally  ceasing  altogether.  There 
was  no  hint  of  any  misunderstanding, 
and  Catherine  felt  that  if  anything  seri- 
ous were  to  happen  in  Manuela's  life,  if 
she  were  to  marry,  for  instance,  a  letter 
would  come  from  Cuba.  Nothing  came 
as  the  months  added  up,  and  she  was 
satisfied  that  Manuela  was  living  out 
her  rather  monotonous  life  on  Senor 
Felipe  Moreto's  tobacco  plantation  in 
Pinar  del  Rio  province. 

Last  August  came  the  new  revolution 
in  Cuba,  and  Catherine  found  all  her  in- 
terest in  Manuela  reawakened  as  she 
read  in  daily  dispatches  of  the  uprising 
in  Pinar  del  Rio,  of  the  raids  of  Pino 
Guerra.  of  the  feeble  resistance  of  the 
Government  forces,  of  the  burning  of 
plantations  and  the  seizure  of  horses 
and  cattle.  She  wondered  if  her  one- 
time chum  could  be  in  any  danger. 

She  had  fully  made  up  her  mind  to 
write  to  Manuela,  when  there  came  a  let- 
ter from  the  latter.  Her  mother  handed 
it  to  her  as  Catherine  sat  down  to  the 
supper  table  in  her  home  on  Caroline 
street,  opposite  St.  Joseph's  Hospital, 
her  cheeks  flushed  from  a  vigorous  aft- 
ernoon at  tennis  in  Clifton  Park.  "It's 
from  Manuela  Moreto!"  she  exclaimed  in 
surprise  as  she  saw  the  handwriting  on 
the  envelope.  Then,  with  increased  ex- 
citement, she  added  "She  must  be  in 
Washington,"  for  she  had  by  this  time 
noted  the  postmark,  the  home  stamp  and 
the  crest  of  the  Raleigh  Hotel. 

The  letter  said: 

Dearest  Girlie— After  all  these  months 
of  silence,  you  will  no  doubt  be  sur- 
prised to  hear  from  your  Cuban  friend, 


31 


A   DAUGHTER   OF   CUBA   LIBRE. 

and  from  Washington,  too.  You  have 
probably  read  of  the  new  uprising  against 
despotism  in  my  oft-bled  country, 
We  have  suffered  much,  but  hope  for  the 
best.  I  cannot  tell  you  now,  but  I  want 
to  come  to  Baltimore  to  see  you  and  the 
dear  old  school,  and  then  we  can  have 
one  of  those  outpourings  of  confidence 
such  as  used  to  give  us  joy.  Let  me  hear 
from  you  just  as  soon  as  you  can.  Yours 
as  ever,  MANUELA  MORETO. 

"Write  tonight  and  tell  her  to  come 
and  visit  us,"  said  Mrs.  Franklin, 
heartily. 

"I  will  if  dad  will  promise  to  like 
Manuela,"  answered  Catherine,  wist- 
fully eying  her  father.  The  Captain 
was  master  and  part  owner  of  a  steamer 
in  the  Central  American  banana  trade, 
and  the  family  knew  from  repeated  out- 
bursts that  he  had  no  very  high  opinion 
of  the  Spanish-American. 

"I'm  not  stuck  on  those  Dagos  as  a 
rule,"  said  the  Captain,  doubtfully,  "but 
if  all  you  say  is  correct  this  s'norita 
must  be  a  fine  girl,  and  you  know  I  cot- 
ton all  right  to  fine  girls." 

"Is  she  pretty?"  asked  Will  Franklin 
of  his  sister.  Will  was  at  the  age  when 
young  men  think  a  great  deal  of  girls. 

"She's  dark,"  explained  his  mother, 
"and  she  was  thin  when  I  used  to  see 
her  with  Catherine  at  Notre  Dame.  But 
if  she  has  filled  out  as  she  should  have, 
she  ought  to  be  a  handsome  girl." 

Two  days  later  the  whole  family  was 
at  Camden  Station  to  welcome  their  for- 
eign visitor.  Will  Franklin  whistled  as 
he  saw  the  splendid-looking  young  wom- 
an whom  his  sister  rushed  to  kiss  as 
she  came  through  the  gate.  "Gee!"  he 


A   DAUGHTER   OF   CUBA   LIBRE. 

exclaimed,  "she's  a  stunner!"  For 
Senorita  Manuela  Teresa  Dolores  Inez 
Moreto  de  la  Rivera— to  give  her  all  of 
her  names— had  not  only  "filled  out" 
until  she  had  a  fine,  well-rounded  fig- 
ure and  a  handsome  dark,  oval  face,  but 
had  also  engaging  animation  and  the 
gift  of  wearing  her  clothes  well.  She 
looked  as  trim  as  can  be  imagined  in  her 
cream-colored  linen  suit,  with  a  couple 
of  touches  of  light  blue  at  the  wrists 
and  neck. 

They  sat  up  late  that  night  in  the  li- 
brary of  the  Franklin  home.  After  sup- 
per they  had  begun  to  ask  questions  of 
Manuela,  and  she  had  in  response  given 
them  her  own  personal  account  of  the 
new  revolution.  It  was  a  narrative  that 
awakened  their  sympathies  for  her  and 
her  family  and  all  others  who  had  suf- 
fered by  the  internal  strife,  and  it  made 
them  strong  partisans  of  the  rebels. 
"They  call  it  Cuba  libre,  free  Cuba!" 
she  exclaimed,  with  flashing  eyes,  "and 
yet  the  days  of  Spanish  tyranny  were  no 
worse  than  the  oppression  of  Palma's 
crowd.  They  have  held  the  offices  since 
Roosevelt  gave  them  the  government,  and 
they  lined  their  pockets  with  what  you 
Americans  call  'graft.'  That  made  them 
determined  to  hold  on  at  all  costs,  and  so 
my  father's  party — the  Liberals — was  not 
only  over-taxed  and  annoyed  by  extor- 
tions on  every  hand,  but  was  cheated 
and  robbed  at  the  polls  when  it  tried 
to  get  control  by  an  honest  election." 

And  then  she  told  of  a  night  in  July 
when  a  half-drunken  crowd  of  Govern- 
ment rurales,  sent  to  arrest  her  father, 


A   DAUGHTER   OF   CUBA   LIBRE. 

had  set  fire  to  his  tobacco  houses  when 
they  found  he  had  been  forewarned  and 
escaped  them. 

"I  cannot  repeat  to  you  all  the  vile 
abuses  they  heaped  upon  me,"  she  added, 
quietly.  "One  of  them,  a  mulatto  who 
had  been  discharged  by  my  father,  tried 
to  kiss  me.  He  is  dead  now."  She  shud- 
dered with  the  recollection.  The  Balti- 
more family  shuddered  at  her  matter-of- 
fact  recital. 

"You  mean— that  he" stammered 

placid,  domestic  Mrs.  Franklin. 

"I  mean  that  two  of  my  father's  men 
singled  him  out  and  macheted  him  the 
first  time  they  met  in  a  skirmish." 

On  only  one  point  was  she  reticent. 
Her  father,  she  said,  had  come  to  this 
country  on  an  errand  for  the  rebels,  but 
what  that  errand  was  she  did  not  ex- 
plain. "He  is  General  Moreto  now,"  she 
remarked;  "and  if  ever  Senor  Zayas  be- 
comes President  and  our  party  comes 
into  control  at  Havana,  they  have  prom- 
ised my  father  greater  honors." 

For  a  week  Senorita  Moreto  continued 
to  add  to  the  powerful  interest  she  had 
aroused  in  her  hosts.  By  day  they  tried 
to  entertain  her — an  afternoon  at  Notre 
Dame  with  the  school  Sisters,  a  trip 
through  the  rebuilt  fire  district,  a  ride 
to  Bay  Shore  Park,  an  excursion  to  Port 
Deposit  by  steamboat  and  other  summer 
opportunities.  But  of  an  evening,  when 
the  family  was  all  collected  in  the  library 
or  on  the  front  stoop,  the  Cuban  dis- 
patches in  that  day's  News  were  care- 
fully gone  over  and  afforded  texts  upon 
which  Manuela  vivaciously  and  elo- 
quently inveighed  against  the  despotism 


A   DAUGHTER   OF   CUBA  LIBRE. 

of  the  "ins"  and  predicted  the  triumph 
of  the  "outs." 

"Uporv  my  soul,  Miss  Moreto,"  said  the 
usually  level-headed  Captain  Franklin, 
"your  zeal  stirs  me  so  that  I  find  myself 
wishing  every  moment  I  was  fighting  on 
your  side." 

"I'd  love  to  have  you  aid  us,"  mur- 
mured the  Cuban  girl.  And  she  lifted 
lu  .•  black  eyelashes  and  cast  her  brilliant 
eyes  at  Catherine's  father  with  such  in- 
tentness  that  he  was  confused  and  looked 
away  without  asking  her,  as  he  had  in- 
tended, just  how  it  was  possible  for  him 
to  help  the  cause. 

The  next  morning  Will,  who  had  be- 
come the  devoted  admirer  of  the  pretty 
Cuban,  carried  two  telegrams  for  Gen- 
eral Moreto  when  he  left  home  to  go  to 
the  Hopkins-place  wholesale  house  where 
he  was  a  clerk.  One  was  addressed  to 
the  Raleigh  in  Washington,  the  other  to 
the  Cuban  junta  headquarters  in  New 
York.  Each  read: 

"You  must  come  at  once.  I  want  you." 

A  reply  came  that  afternoon.  It  was 
from  Wilmington,  and  it  said: 

"Union  Station,  7.33  P.  M." 

Manuela  and  Catherine  met  the  Gen- 
eral at  the  hour  named.  The  man  who 
alighted  from  the  Congressional  Limited 
and  whom  Manuela  rushed  to  kiss  was 
slender  and  undersized,  with  a  swarthy, 
weather-beaten  face,  curly  gray  hair 
and  a  white  moustache,  twisted  and  re- 
twisted  to  the  limit.  He  was  in  white 
flannels  and  was  so  altogether  neat  and 
immaculate  that  Catherine,  perspiring 
under  the  sultriness  of  the  August  even- 


A   DAUGHTER   OF   CUBA   LIBRE. 

ing,  thought  him  the  coolest  person  she 
had  ever  seen.  He  greeted  her  with  gal- 
lantry when  introduced,  and,  though  he 
spoke  English  with  slowness,  his  pro- 
nunciation was  good  and  his  voice  mu- 
sical. 

After  he  had  made  a  similarly  good 
impression  at  the  Caroline-street  dwell- 
ing it  was  Manuela  who  proposed  that 
they  should  leave  the  two  fathers  "to 
smoke  together  and  get  acquainted." 

As  the  girls  went  out  of  the  library 
Moreto  laid  half  a  dozen  cigars  on  the 
table.  "From  my  own  plantation,"  he 
said  to  Captain  Franklin,  with  rather  a 
pompous  manner.  "I  hope  you'll  like 
them."  The  Captain  found  them  the 
finest  Havanas  he  had  ever  puffed. 

"You  go  to  Costa  Rica  for  bananas,  do 
you  not?"  the  General  asked  in  Spanish. 

"Sometimes  Port  Limon;  sometimes 
Bocas  del  Toro,"  answered  Catherine's 
father,  in  the  same  tongue.  "Bocas  del 
Toro  this  trip." 

"When  do  you  sail?" 

"Next  Saturday." 

There  was  another  silence.  Franklin 
studied  his  cigar.  Moreto  studied  the 
fruit  captain.  Presently  he  leaned  for- 
ward on  the  arm  of  his  Morris  chair,  in 
which,  truth  to  tell,  he  looked  rather  in- 
significant. 

"My  daughter,"  he  said,  this  time  in 
English,  "tells  me  you  are  with  us  in 
our  revolution." 

The  Captain  turned  his  clear  blue  eyes 
on  the  Cuban. 

"Your  daughter,  Senor,"  he  replied,  "is 
a  fine  girl."  He  saw  the  shadow  of  disap- 


A   DAUGHTER    OF   CUBA   LIBRE. 

pointment  pass  over  Moreto's  counte- 
nance. "I'm  not  much  on  revolutions. 
I've  seen  too  many  of  the  bloody  things 
in  the  tropics,  and  it  pays  me  to  keep 
out  of  'em.  But  your  girl  Manuela  has 
a  powerful  strong  way  of  putting  things, 
and  I'm  bound  to  say,  if  all  she  tells  is 
not  beyond  the  mark,  my  sympathies  are 
with  you  and  your  crowd." 

"Beyond  the  mark!  Why,  Dios,  Senor 
Capitan!"  cried  the  General,  his  eyes 
gleaming  with  excitement.  "Why,  she 
could  not  tell  you  a  tenth  of  the  truth." 
And  he  launched  into  a  long  narrative 
of  the  oppressions  in  Cuba.  The  words 
came  like  a  torrent,  mostly  Spanish,  oc- 
casionally English;  and  Franklin,  sitting 
there  fascinated,  his  cigar  forgotten, 
could  think  of  nothing  save  that  the 
daughter's  fluency  was  a  gift  of  he- 
redity. 

When  Moreto  had  ended  and  had  sunk 
back  half  exhausted  on  the  cushions  the 
Captain,  usually  calm  and  self-contained, 
betrayed  unwonted  enthusiasm. 

"I'm  with  you  through  and  through," 
he  exclaimed  as  he  rose  from  his  chair 
and  sought  the  Cuban's  hand.  "You 
haven't  had  a  square  deal,  and  I'd  like 
to  see  you  get  it." 

Moreto's  black  eyes  seemed  to  pierce 
him. 

"Would  you  help  us?"  he  asked.  His 
tone  was  so  tense  and  low  that  Franklin 
barely  caught  the  words. 

"Help  you!    How  can  I?" 

Moreto  paused  again.  He  was  not 
quite  sure  of  his  man.  Finally  he  un- 
covered his  aim: 

"Take  rifles  to  Cuba." 


87 


449771 


A   DAUGHTER   OF   CUBA  LIBRE. 

Captain  Franklin  stepped  back.  He 
did  not  exactly  like  the  proposal.  He 
had  always  kept  out  of  such  musses,  and 
he  knew  it  was  violating  Federal  law  to 
be  a  filibuster. 

"I'm  only  part  owner  of  the  Cristobal," 
he  stammered.  "I  would  not  like  to  in- 
volve the  others." 

"They  need  never  know.  I  have  a  per- 
fectly safe  plan." 

The  Captain  wavered.  He  would  like 
to  help  Moreto  and  his  daughter  if  it 
were  not  for  the  risk. 

"What  is  your  plan?" 

"If  we  had  a  thousand  rifles  to  arm 
Pino  Guerra,"  said  Moreto,  "we  could 
take  San  Luis.  If  we  took  San  Luis  we 
could  control  Pinar  del  Rio  province. 
My  mission  to  your  country  is  to  get 
those  rifles  to  a  point  in  that  province. 
I  have  them  boxed,  ready  for  ship- 
ment as  new  machinery  for  a  sugar  plan- 
tation. They  are  at  Wilmington.  I 
thought  I  had  placed  them  on  a  steamer 
in  the  Delaware  last  week,  but  your 
confounded  Secret  Service  agents  are  too 
vigilant,  and  they  learned  from  members 
of  the  crew  that  something  unusual  was 
up.  If  you  will  take  those  boxes  on  the 
Cristobal  I  can  get  them  here  on  Fri- 
day and  will  arrange  for  an  insurgent 
schooner  to  meet  you  at  any  point  you 
name.  Will  you  do  it?" 

"It's  risky  business,"  slowly  said  the 
Captain,  lighting  a  fresh  Vuelta  cigar. 

"It  means  liberty  to  us.  Dios,  Senor 
Captain,  where  would  your  country  be  if 
the  French  had  not  helped  Washington 
and  his  ragged  rebels?" 


38 


A   DAUGHTER   OP   CUBA  LIBRE. 

Franklin  puffed  away  slowly.  The 
Cuban  watched  him.  At  last  the  Cap- 
tain made  a  decision. 

"You  may  send  those  rifles  along,"  he 
said. 

The  two  men  grasped  hands  again. 
They  were  in  that  position  when  Cath- 
erine put  her  head  in  the  library  door. 
"You're  as  quiet  as  two  conspirators," 
she  laughingly  said.  "Perhaps  we  are 
conspiring,  Senorita,"  called  General 
Moreto  as  the  girl  shut  herself  from 
view  again. 

"That  is  a  charming  daughter  of 
yours,  Captain,"  said  the  Cuban,  in  his 
best  English. 

"Ah!  but  your  girl  has  the  head  and 
the  wit.  You  find  her  a  great  help,  don't 
you?" 

Moreto's  smile  was  more  frank  than 
his  reply.  "Women  take  a  bigger  share 
in  revolutions  than  is  generally  be- 
lieved," he  said. 

In  another  half  hour  the  details  of  their 
filibuster  were  arranged.  A  point  in  the 
Caribbean,  near  the  Isle  of  Pines,  was 
selected  for  a  rendezvous.  There  the 
Cuban  schooner  would  take  aboard  the 
contraband  cargo  and  Franklin  go  on 
his  way  after  bananas. 

"Do  you  wish  your  family  to  know?" 
asked  Moreto  as  they  were  about  to 
leave  the  library.  "My  daughter  knows 
all  my  business." 

"Catherine  is  all  right,"  replied  Cap- 
tain Franklin,  "and  so  is  Will,  but  his 
mother  would  worry  too  much." 

And  so  for  the  next  three  days  there 
was  a  great  secret  in  the  Franklin 


A   DAUGHTER   OF   CUBA  LIBRE. 

home,  shared  by  the  young  people  with 
the  two  gray-haired  men.  They  made 
trips  to  the  steamer,  at  the  foot  of 
Centre-Market  space,  a  slender,  white- 
painted  craft,  looking  more  like  a  pri- 
vate yacht  or  a  revenue  cutter  than  a 
tropical  trader;  they  heard  the  arrange- 
ments made  for  prompt  transfer  of  the 
boxes  across  the  city;  they  stopped  with 
General  Moreto  at  the  telegraph  offices 
on  Calvert  street  when  he  sent  off  cipher 
wires  to  the  junta  and  its  agents,  and 
sometimes  cabled  to  Cuba.  And  on  the 
Friday  when  the  boxes  were  due  they 
pestered  the  clerks  at  Bolton  freight 
yards  with  'phone  inquiries.  "It's  great 
fun,"  confided  Catherine  to  Manuela.  "I 
feel  just  like  a  heroine  doing  a  great 
deed.  And  we  have  to  be  so  mysterious, 
too."  Manuela  smiled  indulgently.  She 
had  got  past  the  stage  of  thinking  con- 
spiracies fun. 

No  untoward  incident  occurred  while 
the  boxes  of  rifles  labeled  "Sugar  ma- 
chinery" were  being  loaded  into  the 
Cristobal's  hold.  There  was  no  one  on 
the  dock  or  steamer  who  could  be  sus- 
pected of  being  a  Government  agent. 
General  Moreto  kept  away,  and  the  pres- 
ence of  Miss  Catherine  with  the  Cuban 
girl  could  never  have  aroused  the  doubts 
of  the  crew.  The  boxes  were  taken  on 
without  accident,  and  by  Friday  dusk 
the  Cristobal  had  a  thousand  weapons 
aboard  for  the  rebels  of  Plnar  del  Rio. 

There  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  both 
girls  as  Captain  Franklin  waved  them 
goodbye  from  his  bridge  when  he  was 
being  pulled  out  into  the  Patapsco  the 


40 


A   DAUGHTER   OF   CUBA  LIBBE. 

next  morning.  A  shade  of  extra  serious- 
ness had  tinged  his  parting  from  them 
as  they  went  ashore  from  the  steamer, 
and  Catherine,  no  longer  thinking  con- 
spiracies "great  fun,"  began  to  have 
doubts  whether  she  might  not  have  her 
father  landed  in  jail  somewhere. 

"I  do  hope  no  harm  will  come  to  dad," 
she  said.  "I  never  felt  so  queer  when 
he  went  away  before." 

"Let  us  pray  that  all  goes  well,"  re- 
plied Manuela. 

And  so  for  eleven  whole  long  days,  in 
their  petitions  to  God,  in  church  and 
night  and  morning  in  their  room,  they 
invoked  His  blessing  upon  the  Cristo- 
bal's filibustering  mission.  It  was  an 
anxious  time.  The  period  of  excitement 
over,  the  interval  of  suspense  made  their 
spirits  droop.  None  of  the  usual  amuse- 
ments diverted  them.  Even  Will's  now 
ardent  attentions,  which  had  provoked 
some  teasing  in  the  bosom  of  his  family, 
were  slighted  in  the  strain  of  the  long 
wait  until,  boylike,  and  chafing  under 
the  apparent  neglect,  he  had  impetu- 
ously sought  explanations  from  Man- 
uela. What  she  told  him  is  not  a  part 
of  the  conspiracy,  but  from  that  hour 
there  were  two  secrets  kept  in  the 
Franklin  dwelling.  And  when  he  hur- 
ried home  each  afternoon  with  The 
News,  that  they  might  carefully  exam- 
ine it  for  anything  bearing  on  his  fa- 
ther's expedition,  there  was  a  double 
motive  in  the  eagerness  with  which 
Manuela  met  him  at  the  door. 

It  was  Wednesday  week  before  the 
first  news  came.  General  Moreto.who  had 


A   DAUGHTER   OF   CUBA  LIBRE. 

left  them  on  the  day  after  Captain 
Franklin  had  passed  Cape  Henry  out- 
ward bound,  telegraphed  as  follows: 

Glorious  news;  San  Luis  taken.  We 
must  have  done  it. 

The  girls  were  excitedly  reading  the 
account  in  The  News  of  the  victory  by 
Pino  Guerra  when  this  cable  dispatch 
came  to  them  from  Catherine's  father: 

Bocas  del  Toro. 
Costa  Rica,  Aug.  22. 

Machinery  transferred;  no  trouble. 

FRANKLIN. 

Both  girls  cried  from  happiness  at  the 
relief. 

"Oh!  Catherine,"  said  Manuela  as  she 
sobbed  on  the  latter's  neck,  "I'm  so  glad 
I  knew  you  at  Notre  Dame!" 

"And  I'm  glad  we  struck  a  blow  for 
Cuba  libre,"  rejoined  Catherine. 

"It  may  mean  annexation,"  said  Will, 
as  he  deftly  slipped  his  arm  around 
Manuela' s  waist. 

The  Cuban  girl  grew  rosy  red. 

Catherine  was  quick  to  understand: 
Cuba  might  be  freed,  but  one  individual 
who  had  labored  for  it  was  going  to  be 
annexed. 

"I'm  so  happy!"  she  cried.  And  she 
kissed  both  warmly  and  left  them  to  tell 
her  mother  of  the  latest  beneficent  ex- 
ample of  American  assimilation. 


A   T<teo-Party  Line 


I. 

(Tuesday,  October  23,  19O6.) 

HE— Hello!  Is  this  Central?  Well, 
give 

SHE— No,  it  is  not  Central,  and  I  wish 
you'd  please  get  off  the  line. 

HE — I  beg  your  pardon,  I  thought  you 
were  the  girl  at  Central. 

SHE— No,  I  am  not.  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  break  in.  The  line's  busy.  You 
were  saying,  Evelyn 

HE— I'm  sorry  to  bother  you.  I  don't 
seem  to  be  able  to  get  Central. 

SHE — I  do  wish  you  would  leave  us 
alone!  You  were  describing  that  dress 
you  wore  at  the  Marlborough  dance, 
Evelyn. 

EVELYN— How  is  he  on  this  wire? 

SHE— I  don't  know.  I  suppose  he  has 
the  other  'phone  on  this  line. 

HE — I  beg  your  pardon  again.  Do  I 
understand  you  to  say  this  is  a  two- 
party  line? 

SHE— What  number  are  you? 

HE— Wait  till  I  read  it.  Why  this  is 
Madison  7-9-3-1-y. 

SHE— And  I'm  Madison  7-9-3-1-m.  So 
you  see,  we're  on  the  same  wire.  Please 
get  off. 

HE— I  beg  both  of  your  pardons,  la- 
dies. But  I'm  trying  to  get  a  doctor  for 
my  mother. 

EVELYN— I'll  call  you  up  later,  Gene- 
vieve.  I  can  tell  you  all  about  Atlantic 


A   TWO-PARTY   LINE. 

City  then. 

SHE— He  had  no  business  coming  In 
like  that,  Evelyn.  But  I  suppose  we'll 
have  to  let  him  have  it.  Goodbye. 

HE— I'm  very  grateful  to  both  of  you, 
I'm  sure. 

SHE— Well,  after  all,  we  were  only 
gossiping,  and  I'm  sorry  we  did  not  un- 
derstand sooner. 

HE— Thank  you  again.  (After  a  pause.) 
There  goes  a  click.  I  guess  I  can  call 
Central  now.  By  Jove!  that  girl  had 
spirit,  and  at  the  same  time  showed  gen- 
erosity in  saying  she  was  sorry.  I  won- 
der who  she  is.  Genevieve  the  other 
one  called  her.  Genevieve  who? 

II. 
(Five   Minutes   Later.) 

SHE— Hello,  Central.  Please  give  me 
"Information."  Is  that  "Information"? 
I  want  to  know  who  has  'phone  Madison 
7-9-3-1-y.  My  number?  I'm  on  the  same 
line.  No,  no  trouble.  Just  want  to 
know.  Who'd  you  say?  Mrs.  Mary  Vin- 
cent, 286  West  Lanvale  street.  Thank 
you  so  much. 

III. 
(Ten  Minutes  Later.) 

HE— Hello,  Central,  I  want  to  know 
who  has  'phone  Madison  7-9-3-1-m. 
What's  that?  You'll  give  me  "Informa- 
tion"? All  right.  Hello,  "Information," 
I  want  to  find  out  who  leases  'phone 
Madison  7-9-3-1-m.  No,  not  "y."  I  said 
"m."  Somebody  else  wanted  "y"?  Well, 
that's  my  number.  I  want  "m."  Mr. 
John  D.  Platt,  1346  Linden  avenue? 
What's  that?  Oh,  Pratt.  Thank  you. 


A   TWO-PARTY   LINE. 

IV. 

(Wednesday,   October   24.) 

SHE— Oh!  Evelyn,  I've  got  something 
great  to  tell  you.  You  remember  that 
man  who  "butt  in"  last  night  on  our 
chat?  Well,  I've  found  out  all  about 
him.  His  name  is  Carroll  Vincent,  and 
he's  just  out  of  Princeton  and  is  going  to 
study  law  at  the  University  of  Mary- 
land. How  did  I  find  out?  Oh!  I  can't 
tell  you  all  that  over  the  'phone.  I  just 
used  my  wits.  You  know  Genevieve 
isn't  going  to  get  left.  I'd  die  if  he 

HE— Is  this  Cent 

SHE— Goodness  gracious!  there  he  is 
on  the  line  again! 

HE — I  beg  your  pardon.  I'll  retire 
gracefully. 

SHE— Don't  apologize.  You  could  not 
help  it. 

HE— I  don't  like  to  be  a  "butter-in," 
don't  you  know? 

SHE— I  hope  you  got  the  doctor  all 
right  last  night.  I'd'  be  so  sorry  if  my 
foolish  delay  caused  you  any  trouble. 

HE-Thank  you,  I  got  him  all  right. 

EVELYN  (at  the  other  end)— I'll  call 
you  some  other  time,  Genevieve. 

HE— No;  let  me  get  off  this  time. 

SHE  (after  a  pause)— I  wonder  if  he 
has  really  gone. 

EVELYN— How  did  you  find  out  who 
he  was?  Go  on,  tell  me. 

SHE — I'm  afraid  he  may  be  listening. 

EVELYN— Do  you  think  he'd  do  that 
deliberately? 

SHE— Certainly,  I  don't.  I  think  he 
must  be  just  fine.  Jack  Smallwood  says 
he's  a  stunning-looking  fellow.  I'm  just 
crazy  to  see  him. 


A   TWO-PARTY  LINE. 

EVELYN— Did  you  ask  Jack  Small- 
wood  about  him? 

SHE— Why,  of  course,  you  goose:  They 
live  in  the  same  block. 

EVELYN— You're  getting  on  famously, 
Genevieve. 

SHE— That's  another  slam,  Evelyn. 
You're  just  jealous,  that's  what  the  mat- 
ter with  you.  Next  time  I  call  you  up 
you'll  know  it. 

EVELYN— I'm  sorry,  Genevieve.  I  was 
only  teasing  you. 

SHE— Well,  I  can't  stand  for  it.  I'll 
forgive  you,  though.  Say,  are  you  going 
to  see  "Madam  Butterfly"?  You  don't 
know?  Well,  I'm  going  tomorrow  night 
with  Jack.  He  asked  me  today  when  I 
called  him  up  about  the  other.  He  has 
got  seats  in  the  second  row.  I'm  going 
to  put  on  all  my  best  regalia.  No,  not 
the  blue.  A  pink  chiffon.  You've  never 
seen  it.  It's  a  beauty.  Well,  goodbye. 
See  you  Friday. 

V. 
(Ten   Minutes   Later.) 

HE— Please  give  me  Madison  6-4-8-6-y. 
Is  this  Mr.  Smallwood's  home?  Is  Mr. 
Jack  Smallwood  there?  No?  Well,  when 
do  you  expect  him?  You  don't  know? 
Thank  you.  Curse  the  luck!  Just  when 
I  thought  it  looked  easy. 

VI. 
(9  A.  M.  Friday,  October  26.) 

HE— St.  Paul  9-8-6-3.  Hello!  is  Mr.  Jack 
Smallwood  in  the  office?  Yes,  if  you 
please.  Jack,  this  is  Carroll  Vincent- 
no,  no,  Vincent.  Say,  old  man,  saw  you 
at  Ford's  last  night.  Fine-looking  girl 
with  you— stunningly  dressed— beautiful 


A  TWO-PARTY   LINE. 

features— who  is  she? 

JACK— Say,  Carroll,  what  the  devil  is 
all  this  between  you  two  who  have  never 
met?  I'm  over  seven,  you  know,  and 
I've  shed  my  sweet  innocence. 

HE— I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  old 
man. 

JACK— Ah  yes,  you  do!  And  if  you 
don't  come  up  to  the  Captain's  office 
and  settle  I'll  blast  your  reputation  with 
her  forever.  There's  some  mystery  in 
it  all.  First,  Genevieve  Pratt  asks  me 
about  you.  Then  when  I  saw  you  last 
night  she  twisted  her  neck  so,  to  look  at 
you,  that  I  thought  I'd  have  to  summon 
medical  help.  Now  you  call  me  up  to 
talk  about  her.  What's  the  game?  Put 
me  wise. 

HE— Fact  is,  old  man,  Miss  Pratt  and 
I  are  on  the  same  line. 

JACK— Same  line?  What  kind  of  line? 

HE— Same  'phone.  Two-party  line. 
Butt  in  on  her  the  other  night.  Butt  out. 
Butt  in  again  next  night.  Apologized 
eighteen  times.  Must  meet  her,  espe- 
cially since  she's  such  a  smasher. 

JACK  —  All  right,  Carroll  boy.  I'll 
fix  it  for  you,  now  I  understand. 

HE— Make  it  soon,  for  Heaven's  sake. 

VII. 
(Friday,  November  2.) 

HE— Give  me  Madison  7-9-3-1-m,  please. 
No,  no;  I  want  the  other  party  on  this 
line.  Don't  buzz  that  bell  so  loud  in  my 
ears.  Hello!  Is  that  Mr.  '  Pratt' s?  Oh! 
is  this  you,  Miss  Pratt?  You're  looking 
well  this  evening.  This  is  Carroll  Vin- 
cent. 

SHE— Feeling  tiptop,  thank  you.  Did 
you  get  wet  in  the  rain  last  night? 


47 


A  TWO-PARTY  LINE. 

HE— No;  it  stopped  pouring  almost  as 
soon  as  we  left  your  house. 

SHE— I'm  glad  of  that.  I  want  to 
thank  you  for  the  chocolates  you  sent 
this  evening.  You  said  you  were  going 
to  send  a  book. 

HE— I  know  I  did.  I  tramped  the  town 
over  to  get  that  novel,  but  every  shop 
was  out  of  it.  Then  I  did  not  like  you  to 
think  I  had  forgotten  you  so  soon,  and 
I  sent  the  bonbons. 

SHE — It  certainly  was  sweet  of  you. 
They're  nearly  all  gone  already. 

HE— Mercy,  mercy— don't  make  your- 
self sick!  I  wouldn't  have  you  that  way. 

SHE — You  wouldn't  have  me  any  way, 
would  you? 

HE— Give  me  the  chance.  But  I'm 
afraid  you're  a  "jollier,"  Miss  Pratt. 

SHE— You're  the  first  to  tell  me. 

HE— Did  you  say  "first"  or  "fiftieth"? 
There  was  a  noise  on  the  wire  just  then. 

SHE — I  know  you're  a  flirt. 

HE — Never!    I've  got  my  fingers  crossed. 

SHE — Those  eyes  of  yours  were  not 
made  for  nothing. 

HE— Neither  were  yours.  Jack  said  so 
last  night.  By  the  by,  he's  a  capital  fel- 
low. I'll  never  get  over  being  grateful 
to  him  for  bringing  us  together. 

SHE— I  think  he's  just  fine. 

HE— You're  speaking  very  zealously. 
Do  you  know  I'm  almost  jealous  of  him 
when  I  hear  you  talk  like  that. 

SHE— I'm  a  loyal  champion  for  my 
friends,  you'll  find.  I  have  but  few,  and 
those  I  keep. 

HE— Do  you  ever  add  to  the  list? 

SHE— That's  for  you  to  discover. 

HE— v_ount  me  in,  please. 


A   TWO-PARTY  LINE. 

SHE— Well— I'm  willing  to  try  to  do  so. 

HE— Thanks,  awfully.  By  the  way, 
they've  pledged  me  their  word  that  a 
copy  of  that  novel  will  be  here  tomor- 
row. May  I  bring  it  around  Sunday 
evening? 

SHE— Why,  I  could  be  reading  the 
book  all  day  Sunday. 

HE— Then  I'll  make  it  tomorrow  night. 
Will  that  suit? 

SHE— I  have  no  engagement,  and  will 
be  glad  to  have  you. 

HE— Good-bye  until  then. 

VIII. 
(Thursday,  December  6.) 

HE— Madison  7-9-3-1-m,  please.  Yes.  Is 
that  Mr.  Pratt's?  Is  Miss  Genevieve 
there? 

SHE— No,  she  is  not  in.  Who  shall  I 
tell  her  called? 

HE — You  didn't  disguise  your  voice, 
Miss  Genevieve?  I  knew  you  right  away. 

SHE— I  thought  I  might  learn  some- 
thing, Mr.  Vincent. 

HE— I  might  have  told  my  real  name. 

SHE— That  would  have  been  disastrous. 

HE— It  would,  if  I  had  started  confess- 
ing things. 

SHE— What's  the  matter?  Have  you 
anything  on  your  conscience? 

HE— Not  my  conscience,  but  my  heart. 

SHE — There  you  go  again.  You  prom- 
ised me  last  night  at  the  Academy  you 
wouldn't  jolly  any  more. 

HE — I  haven't.  I'm  desperately  in 
earnest.  I  swear  it. 

SHE— I  wish  I  could  believe  you. 

HE— Why  don't  you? 

SHE— It    might    disturb    my    peace    of 


A   TWO-PARTY  LINE. 

mind. 

HE— Would  that  be  so  bad? 

SHE— Um-m-m-m-m,    maybe. 

HE— I  can  see  those  mocking  eyes  of 
yours  now. 

SHE— I  don't  like  that,  Mr.  Vincent. 
That's  rude. 

HE— I'll  beg  your  pardon  when  next  I 
can  look  at  you.  That  reminds  me.  Have 
you  anything  on  for  tomorrow  night? 

SHE— Um-m-m,  no. 

HE— I'd  like  to  take  you  to  Albaugh's. 
You've  seen  a  musical  comedy  at  the 
Academy,  and  a  serious  drama  at  Ford's, 
and  it  might  be  well  to  take  a  dash  into 
"vodevil"  before  the  week  is  over. 

SHE— Do  you  know  you're  too  good  to 
me.  I  can  never  repay  you. 

HE— Yes,  you  can.  By  agreeing  to  go 
every  time  I  ask. 

SHE— Haven't  I  done  it? 

HE— Yes,  you've  never  failed  me.  It's 
settled,  then,  for  "vodevil?" 

SHE— Come  early  and  avoid  the  rush. 

HE — And  can  you  stay  late?  Because — 
well,  I  thought  you  might  like  a  bite  to 
eat  at  the  Stafford  after  the  show. 

SHE — Another  of  your  surprises.  Do 
you  treat  all  of  the  girls  so  finely? 

HE— No;  only  you. 

SHE— Bluffer!    Goodbye. 

IX. 
(Monday,  January  21,  1OO7.) 

SHE — Please  ring  the  other  party  on 
this  line.  Is  that  Madison  7-9-3-1-y?  Mrs. 
Vincent,  isn't  it?  This  is  Genevieve 
Pratt,  Mrs.  Vincent.  I  hope  you're  feel- 
ing better  than  when  I  saw  you?  So 
glad  to  hear  it.  Isn't  this  fine,  crisp 
weather?  Do  I  want  to  speak  to  your 


A   TWO-PARTY   LINE. 

son?    If  I  may.    Is  that  you,  Carroll? 

HE— Why,  little  girl! 

SHE — Surprised  to  hear  from  me  so 
soon?  Well,  after  I  came  in  the  house  I 
found  an  invitation  to  a  private  dance  at 
the  Belvedere  two  weeks  from  tonight. 
Lida  and  her  husband  are  to  give  it. 
I've  heard  it's  to  be  a  swell  affair— big 
ballroom  decorated,  orchestra  and  seated 
supper.  I  want  you  to  go  with  me.  Will 
you? 

HE— Now,  you  know  very  well  I  will, 
little  girl. 

SHE— Oh,  I'm  so  glad!  I'll  see  every- 
body I  know;  I'll  have  you  with  me, 
and — you  know  how  to  dance  so  well. 

HE — You  mean  we  know  how  to  dance 
together.  Listen,  Genevieve:  If  I  go, 
are  you  going  to  give  me  every  dance? 

SHE  —  Certainly  not.  People  would 
talk  too  much.  If  you're  good,  you  may 
have  every  other  one. 

HE— And  sit  out  the  rest  with  you? 

SHE— Perhaps.    All  right,  mother. 

HE— What   did  you   say? 

SHE— Did  you  hear?  That  was  mother 
insisting  that  I  come  to  dinner. 

HE — I'll  let  you  go,  then.  You  prom- 
ised me  every  one,  don't  forget. 

SHE— No,  I  didn't. 

HE— Do  you  remember  what  I  told  you 
coming  uptown  this  afternoon? 

SHE— You  told  me  a  lot  of  things. 

HE — I  told  you  you  were  the  most  tor- 
menting little  vixen  on  earth. 

SHE— You  didn't  mean  it,  did  you? 
All  right,  mother.  Listen,  Carroll,  I 
really  must  go.  Tell  me  you  didn't 
mean  it. 


51 


A   TWO-PARTY   LINE. 

HE— I  did  mean  it.  You  are  the  most 
tormenting,  also  the  most  lovable.  I 
wouldn't  have  you  otherwise. 

SHE— Oh,  Carroll! 

HE— Goodbye. 

X. 
(Tuesday,   February   5.) 

SHE— Madison  7-9-3-1-y,  please.  Is  Mr. 
Carroll  Vincent  up?  At  breakfast?  Please 
tell  him  Miss  Pratt  wishes  to  speak  to 
him.  Oh,  Carroll,  I  haven't  slept  a  wink 
since  you  left  me  at  the  door!  I'm  so 
happy!  I  just  lay  awake  thinking  of  last 
night,  and  then  I  thought  I'd  get  up  and 
'phone  you  before  you  went  downtown. 
I'm  so  happy! 

HE — I'm  glad  you  are,  sweetheart.  I'll 
try  all  my  life  to  keep  you  so.  I  wish  I 
could  get  closer  to  you  than  over  this 
"phone. 

SHE— What  would  you  do? 

HE — I'd  kiss  you  and  whisper  how  I 
love  you. 

SHE— Don't,  Carroll,  don't!  The  tele- 
phone girl  will  hear  you. 

HE— What  do  I  care?  I  feel  like  going 
around  and  shouting  to  all  the  world, 
"She  loves  me,  she  loves  me,  she  loves 
me!"  just  to  tell  them  how  happy  I  am. 

SHE— Oh,  Carroll,  don't  do  that! 

HE— You  don't  suppose  I'd  do  it,  little 
darling,  do  you?  No,  this  is  our  precious 
little  secret.  Just  we  two. 

SHE— I  don't  deserve  all  this  joy,  Car- 
roll. I  don't  feel  I'm  good  enough  for 
you— indeed,  I  don't. 

HE — I  thought  you  promised  me  in  the 
carriage  that  you  would  never  talk  like 
that  again. 


ri 


A   TWO-PARTY   LINE. 

SHE— I  can't  help  it,  Carroll.  I  feel  so 
unworthy  of  you.  I  never  felt  like  that 
before  in  my  life.  But  when— when  you 
put  your  arm  around  me— I  just  thought- 
well,  I  just  thought  how  grand  and  noble 
you  are  and  how  trifling  and  insignificant 
I  am. 

HE— Don't,  don't  say  that,  little  sweet- 
heart. 

SHE— I  just  can't  help  it.  I'm  so  happy 
I  want  to  cry. 

HE— I  understand,  dear  girl. 

SHE— And  when  you  asked  me  in  the 
alcove  if  I — whether  I  would  give  my- 
self to  you  for  keeps — and  you  spoke  so 
beautifully,  Carroll !— indeed,  I  had  trou- 
ble to  keep  back  the  tears.  Love  is  a 
wonderful  thing,  isn't  it? 

HE— It  is,  dearest. 

SHE— You  are  coming  early  tonight, 
aren't  you? 

HE— I  will  fly  to  you  as  soon  as  I  can. 
I  tell  you  what,  can't  you  meet  me 
downtown  and  have  lunch  with  me? 

SHE— Oh!  may  I?  You  know  I'd  just 
love  to! 

HE— Well,  meet  me  at  half-past  12. 
Usual  corner,  you  know — Fidelity  Build- 
ing1. Goodbye  until  then. 

XI. 
("Wednesday,  April  1O.) 

SHE— Madison  7-9-3-1-y,  please.  Is  that 
you,  Carroll? 

HE— Yes,  it  is  I. 

SHE— I  think  it  perfectly  hateful  of 
you  to  send  me  that  mean  note,  Car- 
roll Vincent. 

HE — Now,  look  here,  girlie,  don't  you 
think  you're  to  blame? 


53 


A   TWO-PARTY   LINE. 

SHE— I?    Why,  the  idea! 

HE — Yes,  you.  I  don't  believe  you  care 
for  me  at  all. 

SHE— Why,  Carroll  Vincent,  how  can 
you  say  that? 

HE— Now,  say,  Genevieve,  don't  take 
that  tone  with  me.  You  know  you  had 
no  business  flirting  with  Jack  Small- 
wood  as  you  did  last  night  at  Leh- 
mann's. 

SHE— Flirting?  Why,  Mr.  Vincent,  how 
dare  you? 

HE— Yes,  flirting.  I  said  it.  If  you 
cared  anything  for  me,  you  wouldn't 
treat  me  so  contemptibly  as  you  have 
been  lately. 

SHE— Contemptibly?  What  have  I  been 
doing,  I'd  like  to  know? 

HE — I  think  the  way  you  carried  on 
with  Jack  was  perfectly  outrageous.  As 
for  him,  when 

SHE— Carroll  Vincent,  you  ought  to  be 
grateful  to  him,  if  you  love  me. 

HE— If  I  love  you? 

SHE— Yes,  if  you  love  me.  You  know 
very  well  he  introduced  us.  And  Jack 
isn't  anything  to  me. 

HE— And  you  don't  care  for  him? 

SHE— Certainly  I  like  him.  He's  one 
of  my  oldest  friends. 

HE— Oh,   those  friends! 

SHE— You're  letting  your  jealousy  run 
away  with  you. 

HE— Maybe  I  am,  but  I'm  glad  I  found 
him  out  before  it  was  too  late. 

SHE— Indeed!  And  do  you  think  it  is 
too  late?  (Pause)  What  did  you  say? 

HE— I  didn't  say  anything.  I  was  think- 
ing. Listen,  Genevieve,  what's  the  ust, 


M 


A   TWO-PARTY  LINE. 

of  our  going  on  like  this?  I  see  now  I 
was  pig-headed  to  send  that  note.  It  was 
cruel  to  you.  I'll  never  forgive  myself. 

SHE— I'm  glad  you're  coming  to  your 
senses. 

HE— I  don't  blame  you  for  being  an- 
gry, Genevieve,  dear. 

SHE— Oh!  Carroll,  how  could  you  be 
so  unjust? 

HE — I'm  awfully  remorseful.  Can't  I 
come  tonight  and  tell  you  more? 

SHE— Why,  certainly,  you  old  goose. 
I'll  forgive  you. 

HE— I'm  so  glad,  Genevieve.  But,  tell 
me,  dearest  girl,  you  don't  care  for  Jack 
Smallwood. 

SHE— No,  you  silly  boy.  He  isn't 
worth  your  little  finger. 

HE— Thank  you,  sweetheart.    Goodbye. 

XII. 

(Wednesday,   June   4.) 

SHE  —  Madison  7-9-3-1-y,  please.  Is 
that  you,  dearest?  Oh!  Carroll,  I'm  all 
so  topsy-turvy  I  don't  know  what  I'm 
doing.  But  I  just  couldn't  go  to  bed 
without  talking  to  you  again. 

HE— You  know  I'm  glad. 

SHE— And  I Oh!  I'm  so  full  of  joy 

I  can't  wait  for  tomorrow  to  come. 
Doesn't  it  seem  like  a  dream  to  think  of 
our  being  married?  It's  all  so  strange, 
and  yet  I'm  so  happy!  You  don't  think 
me  unwomanly  for  telling  you  so,  do 
you,  dearest?  I'm  so  frightened,  and 
yet  my  heart  is  beating — trip — trip — for 
you.  Can't  you  hear  it? 

HE— Keep  still  a  moment.  Yes,  I  can. 
One,  two,  three 

SHE— Oh,  you  tease!  Such  nonsense! 


A  TWO-PARTY  LINE. 

HE— It  must  be  my  own  then,  beating 
for  you. 

SHE— You're  not  nervous,  are  you? 

HE— Of  course  I  am.  Am  I  not  going 
to  get  the  best,  sweetest,  prettiest,  dear- 
est, most  lovable  girl  in  the  world  for  a 
wife?  Tomorrow  at  high  noon  seems  a 
long  way  off,  doesn't  it? 

SHE— Oh!  Carroll,  we  won't  need  a 
'phone  then,  will  we? 

HE— It  has  been  a  dear  old  two-party 
line,  though,  hasn't  it? 

SHE — It  knows  an  awful  lot  of  our  se- 
crets. I  wonder  how  much  the  exchange 
girl  has  heard? 

HE— Oh!  I  guess  she  got  tired  of  us 
long  ago. 

SHE— Then  she  won't  be  listening  if 
I  send  you  a  kiss  over  the  wire. 
Um — m — m — m — did  you  get  it? 

HE— I'll  give  it  back  with  interest  to- 
morrow. 

SHE— Everything's  tomorrow,  isn't  it? 

HE— There's  the  clock  striking  mid- 
night. It's  today  now,  and  our  wedding 
day. 

SHE— Oh,   Carroll! 

HE— Don't  come  late,  little  bride.  I'll 
be  "waiting  at  the  church." 


Timon  Up  To  Date 

The  Doctor  and  his  wife  waited  until 
their  half  dozen  guests  had  finished  the 
tasty  supper  Mrs.  Harford  had  provided 
before  they  sprung  upon  them  the  pur- 
pose which  had  moved  them  to  invite 
them.  The  entire  party  was  made  up  of 
"West  Arlingtonites,  neighbors  from 
across  the  way,  from  down  the  block 
and  from  up  near  Carter  Station.  They 
had  chatted  gaily  over  neighborhood 
gossip  in  the  dining-room,  intermingled 
with  nonsense  of  the  sort  that  passes 
between  people  who  have  been  a  great 
deal  in  the  same  set.  And  now  that  they 
were  seated  on  the  front  porch,  two  in 
a  hammock  and  the  others  in  comforta- 
ble rockers,  the  badinage  continued  as 
Dr.  Harford  passed  cigars  to  the  men 
and  pretended  to  give  them  to  the  ladies, 
too. 

"They  don't  seem  to  have  taken  of- 
fense at  our  not  asking  them,"  whis- 
pered Mrs.  Caswell  to  plump  little  Mrs. 
Fremont. 

"No,  not  a  bit,"  responded  Mrs.  Fre- 
mont, in  the  same  low  tone.  "All  the 
same,  I  feel  like  a  hypocrite  for  com- 
ing." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Mrs. Caswell;  "you're 
too  soft." 

She  might  have  added  more,  but  Dr. 
Harford,  who  had  been  lounging  against 
a  post  since  he  had  handed  around  the 
cigars,  was  evidently  trying  to  attract 


57 


TIMON   UP   TO   DATE. 

the  attention  of  the  entire  group. 

"I  am  reminded  tonight,"  he  began, 
slowly,  "by  this  little  affair  of  a  larger 
party  here  last  summer,  when  we  en- 
tertained the  card  club." 

In  the  stillness  that  ensued  the  song 
of  the  crickets  in  the  fields  beyond  the 
town  sounded  most  strangely  plain. 

"Mrs.  Harford  and  I,"  pursued  the 
Doctor,  his  voice  growing  more  incisive, 
his  manner  more  stern,  "both  enjoyed 
ourselves  in  that  club,  and  we  are  most 
curious  to  know  why  we  were  not  in- 
cluded this  year." 

The  pair  in  the  hammock  stopped 
swinging  so  suddenly  that  their  feet 
scraped  the  floor  vigorously.  Mrs.  Fre- 
mont cleared  her  throat  with  evident 
nervousness.  The  others  were  still 
dumb— that  is,  all  except  Mr.  Caswell. 

"Why,  old  man,"  he  burst  out,  "I  was 
told  you  did  not  want  to" 

"Joseph!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Caswell, 
turning  herself  so  that  her  husband 
could  see  her  more  plainly  in  the  white 
light  from  the  arc  lamp  at  the  corner. 
There  was  the  menace  of  a  curtain  lec- 
ture in  her  face. 

"We  did  want  to  join,  Caswell,"  ex- 
claimed Dr.  Harford,  quickly.  "The  plain 
fact  is  that  we  were  not  asked." 

"There  must  be  some  mistake,"  said 
Mr.  Caswell.  "I'm  sure  I,  for  one,  have 
been  sorry" 

"Joseph!"  again  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cas- 
well. This  time  she  was  unmistakably 
severe.  Caswell  subsided. 

Dr.  Harford  addressed  himself  directly 
to  Mrs.  Caswell.  "I  intend  to  get  to  the 
bottom  of  this  affair  tonight,"  he  said. 


58 


TIMON   UP   TO   DATE. 

"I  have  asked  questions  of  several  of 
you,  and  so  has  Effie,  and  the  excuses 
given  have  been  so  various  that  they 
would  be  funny  if  I  did  not  feel  they 
are  doing  injury  to  me  professionally,  as 
well  as  socially.  My  purpose  in  having 
you  all  together  here" 

A  Garrison-avenue  car  crowded  with 
Electric  Park  visitors  rumbled  noisily 
by  and  drowned  some  of  the  words  of 
his  sentence. 

"I  want  it  sifted  thoroughly  now." 

Little  Mrs.  Fremont  half  rose  from 
her  chair,  as  she  said  weakly  to  her 
husband:  "I  don't  feel  well.  I  think  I'd 
better  be  going." 

"Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Fremont,"  said  Dr. 
Harford,  "I  beg  of  you  that  you  will  re- 
main." 

"Stick  it  out,  Emily,"  remarked  Mr. 
Fremont.  "Harford  has  got  us  here  to 
learn  the  truth."  Nothing  ever  seemed 
to  worry  Fremont. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Caswell,"  continued  Dr 
Harford,  still  addressing  that  lady  di- 
rectly and  drawing  nearer  to  her  by  a 
foot  or  two,  "I  will  begin  with  you. 
Last  week  when  you  were  in  my  office 
I  asked  you  to  tell  me  just  what  stories 
were  being  circulated  about  me  in  West 
Arlington,  and  after  some  demur  you 
told  me.  Do  you  mind  repeating  them?" 

Mrs.  Caswell  was  scornful.  "I  have 
nothing  to  say,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  think 
it  better  to  hush  the  whole  affair." 

"Then,  my  dear  madam,  I  am  forced 
to  repeat  to  my  guests  what  you  told 
me.  You  said,  you  will  recollect,  that 
one  resident  had  accused  me  of  having 
cheated  at  cards,  and  that  another  party 


TIMON    UP   TO   DATE. 

had  called  me  a  'tooth  butcher,'  and  had 
declared  I  could  not  fix  the  teeth  of  her 
little  dog.  Was  not  that  it?" 

It  was  Mrs.  Caswell's  turn  to  rise. 
"This  is  a  contemptible  outrage,"  she 
cried.  "I  demand  that  it  stop." 

"No  more  contemptible  than  the  injury 
you  have  done  us,"  spiritedly  said  Mrs. 
Harford,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"Have  I  not  quoted  you  right?"  asked 
Dr.  Harford  of  Mrs.  Caswell. 

"I  shall  say  nothing,"  returned  she. 
"You  have  cooked  up  a  vile  plot  to  trap 
us  here." 

"Then,  my  dear  Mrs.  Caswell,  if  you 
will  affirm  nothing,  I  have  a  way  to 
make  you  speak."  He  stepped  inside  his 
hallway  for  an  instant,  while  the  others, 
all  except  his  wife,  watched  him  with 
great  curiosity  and  some  alarm.  When 
he  reappeared  he  was  carrying  a  table 
on  which  was  some  large,  heavy  article 
hidden  under  a  tablecloth.  "There's  a  lit- 
tle surprise  coming  to  you  and  the  rest," 
he  resumed.  "You  did  not  know, 
madame,  that  when  I  was  pressing  you 
with  questions  as  you  sat  in  my  dental 
chair  a  phonograph  was  making  a  rec- 
ord of  your  answers."  He  whipped  off 
the  cover  of  the  talking  machine  and 
busied  himself  with  preparing  it  for  ac- 
tion. 

Consternation  was  writ  large  upon  the 
countenances  of  those  who  could  be  seen 
in  the  stray  beams  of  light  that  coun- 
tered through  the  porch.  But  Mrs.  Cas- 
well's was  the  only  voice  heard.  Again 
she  protested  against  having  been 
trapped. 

"Silence,"    said    Dr.    Harford,    and    he 


60 


TIMON   UP   TO   DATE. 

started  the  machine  to  whirring.  Every- 
body bent  forward  so  as  to  miss  noth- 
ing. But  there  was  no  need,  for  the  fa- 
miliar tones  of  Mrs.  Caswell  had  been 
well  recorded  by  the  Edison  invention 
and  floated  out  in  full  and  plain  con- 
firmation of  the  charges  Dr.  Harford 
had  so  carefully  repeated. 

Fremont's  "Thunderation!"  was  the 
only  audible  one  of  several  exclamations 
that  were  murmured  as  the  quoted 
phrases  died  away.  Dr.  Harford  raised  a 
warning  finger. 

"Wait,"  he  said;    ''there's  more." 

And  as  the  machine  kept  revolving 
they  heard  his  own  voice  say: 

"And  who  was  it,  Mrs.  Caswell,  who 
told  you  that  I  had  cheated  at  cards?" 

There  came  a  sharp  interruption. 

"Stop!"  cried  Mrs.  Caswell,  as  in  sheer 
desperation  she  bounced  from  her  chair 
and  made  a  vicious  dive  toward  the  tell- 
tale recording  angel,  only  to  be  blocked 
by  the  watchful  Dr.  Harford.  "Let  go  of 
me,"  she  cried,  as  she  shook  off  his  re- 
straining hand  in  furious  anger.  "I  in- 
sist that  you  stop  this  outrage.  Joseph, 
how  can  you  stand  idly  by  and  see  me 
so  grossly  insulted?" 

There  was  no  answer  to  the  summons 
from  Caswell.  His  wife  evidently  ex- 
pected none,  for  she  continued  right 
along  in  wrathful  denunciations  of  Har- 
ford, threatening  law  suits  and  other 
means  of  dire  vengeance.  "I  declare 
she  frightens  me,"  whispered  timid  Mrs. 
Fremont,  as  she  drew  her  chair  closer 
to  that  of  her  husband. 

The  phonograph  was  pursuing  the  even 
tenor  of  its  paraffine  way.  Those  who 


61 


TIMON    UP   TO   DATE. 

could  hearken  to  it  above  the  irate  tones 
of  Mrs.  Caswell  heard  her  refuse  sev- 
eral times  to  name  her  informant;  heard 
the  Doctor's  earnest  pleading  for  no  con- 
cealment, and  finally  heard  her  say: 

"Well,  if  you  really  must  know,  Doc- 
tor, who  it  was  who  said  you  cheated  at 
cards,  it  was  Mrs.  Fremont." 

Dr.  Harford  quickly  shut  off  the  rec- 
ord and  turned  to  face  the  others.  Mrs. 
Fremont  had  risen  from  her  chair  and 
leveled  her  finger  at  Mrs.  Caswell.  She 
was  timid  no  longer. 

"How  dared  you  tell  such  a  lie  about 
me,  Irene  Caswell?"  she  gasped. 

"You  know  you  said  it,  Mary  Fre- 
mont." 

"I  did  not.  She  is  telling  what  is  not 
true,  Dr.  Harford.  She  came  to  me 
when  we  were  re-forming  the  club  and 
said  she  would  not  join  this  year  if  you 
were  to  be  a  member.  She  uttered  a  lot 
of  things  against  you,  and  finally  she 
said  she  was  sure  you  would  not  hesi- 
tate to  cheat  at  cards,  and  she  only 
wished  she  could  catch  you  once.  And 
then  I  reminded  her — perhaps  I  was 
wrong  to  do  it— of  the  time  when  I  was 
your  partner  and  you  sprouted  an  extra 
point  and  presently  we  got  into  a  dispute 
about  the  score." 

"You  mean  the  night  at  Mrs.  Park- 
in's?" 

"Yes;  don't  you  remember  you  were 
the  first  one  to  call  attention  to  it  and 
wanted  to  take  off  the  point,  but  after 
some  time  it  was  shown  that  we  had  the 
right  number?  That's  honestly  all  I  said 
to  her  about  you  and  the  cards." 

"I  believe  you,  Mrs.  Fremont." 


TIMON   UP   TO   DATE. 

Prom  the  chair  into  which  Mrs.  Gas- 
well  had  subsided  there  came  a  snort. 
"Go  ahead,"  she  sneered.  "Play  out 
your  little  comedy.  You're  all  in  it  to- 
gether. Nobody  will  believe  me." 

"We  take  you  at  your  word,  Mrs.  Gas- 
well,"  rejoined  Dr.  Harford.  "There  is 
more  of  the  truth  to  be  got  at." 

Again  the  phonograph  was  in  motion, 
and  the  listeners  heard  these  questions 
and  answers: 

"And  who  was  it.  Mrs.  Caswell,  who 
told  you  I  was  a  'tooth  butcher'  and 
could  not  fix  the  teeth  of  her  little 
dog?" 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Doctor,  it 
was  Mrs.  Parkin  who  said  her  husband 
had  called  you  a  'tooth  butcher,'  and  it 
was  Mrs.  Somerset  who  said  you  could 
not  fix  the  teeth  of  her  little  dog." 

Both  the  Parkins  rose  from  their  place 
in  the  hammock.  The  husband  was  so 
angry  that  he  moved  toward  Mrs.  Cas- 
well with  upraised  hand  until  he  recol- 
lected himself  and  halted  with  a  mut- 
tered exclamation.  The  wife,  a  tall, 
graceful  blonde,  who  had  made  herself 
well  liked  since  they  had  moved  out  to 
West  Arlington,  chose  to  ignore  the 
woman  who  had  involved  her,  and  so 
addressed  herself  directly  to  the  host. 

"My  husband  and  I,"  she  began,  coolly 
and  cuttingly,  "are  very  much  indebted 
to  you,  Dr.  Harford,  for  so  cleverly  un- 
masking the  traitor  in  our  midst.  This 
woman  has  called  it  a  miserable  trap, 
and  I  want  to  say  that  I  feel  that  only 
by  such  a  contrived  plot  has  it  been  pos- 
sible to  uncover  the  truth  and  lay  the 
trouble  at  the  door  of  the  right  scandal- 
monger. 


TIMON    UP   TO   DATE. 

"Of  course,  it  is  unnecessary  to  say 
to  you,"  and  she  pulled  herself  up  to 
her  full  queenly  height  and  spoke  with^ 
most  dignified  impressiveness,  "that  my" 
husband  did  not  call  you  a  'tooth 
butcher'  and  that  I  did  not  tell  her  he 
had  said  so.  What  he  did  say  was 
merely  to  repeat  jokingly  that  old  jest 
about  a  dentist  being  a  'tooth  carpen- 
ter.' I  forget  the  way  he  put  it,  but  it 
sounded  funny  to  me  at  the  time,  and 
when  I  was  out  with  Mrs.  Caswell  in 
her  auto  that  very  afternoon  I  told  her. 
She  laughed,  but  Mrs.  Somerset,  who 
was  with  us,  thought  the  expression 
horrid,  and  said  if  she  were  to  think  of 
you  as  a  'tooth  carpenter'  and  not  as  a 
good,  careful  dentist,  she  would  not  let 
you  attend  her  dog.  Thus,  you  see,  Doc- 
tor, how  two  harmless  little  expressions 
have  been  perverted  into  nasty  gossip 
against  you. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  of  the  things  thar 
she  alleged  against  you  that  afternoon 
or  at  other  times.  I  did  not  give  heed  to 
them,  and  I  have  too  much  respect  101 
you  to  repeat  them  here  just  now.  I 
am  only  sorry  that  we  yielded  to  Mrs. 
Caswell's  insistent  urging  that  we  ex- 
clude you  from  the  card  club  this  sum- 
mer. I  am  sure  it  was  only  done  be- 
cause we  felt  there  had  been  ill  feeling 
between  you  and  her  and  because  she 
had  been  the  one  to  start  the  club  and 
lead  it  each  year." 

"And  I  want  to  add,  Harford,"  said 
Parkin,  heartily,  "that  you  will  either 
be  in  the  club  henceforth  or  there  will 
be  no  club.  Am  I  not  right?"  he  queried, 
turning  to  the  Fremonts. 


TIMON    UP   TO   DATE. 

The  prompt  assent  from  both  must 
have  settled  Mrs.  Caswell's  last  hope  of 
appeal  from  a  unanimous  verdict.  She 
rose  and  made  a  sign  to  her  husband. 
Her  blazing  anger  had  given  way  to  a 
chilly  hauteur  that  showed  that,  al- 
though beaten,  she  had  not  hauled  down 
the  flag.  "I  hope  your  little  farce  has 
quite  ended,"  she  remarked  to  Dr.  Har- 
ford,  with  exaggerated  dignity. 

"Quite,"  he  replied,  with  sweet  ac- 
quiescence. 

"Then  I  suppose  I  will  be  allowed  to 
go?" 

"As  soon  as  convenient." 

"I  leave  you,"  she  pursued,  "in  the 
hands  of  your  friends.  Oh!  if  you  only 
knew  the  things  they  have  said  about 
you!  And  now  they  honey  you!" 

"I  am  willing  to  trust  them,"  he  said, 
equably. 

For  the  life  of  her,  Mrs.  Caswell  could 
think  of  no  other  biting  thing  to  say,  so 
she  took  her  departure. 

"Come,  Joseph,"  she  ordered,  as  she 
passed  down  the  steps  to  the  hedge-bor- 
dered walk. 

Caswell  stopped  for  an  instant  to  hold 
out  his  hand  to  the  dentist. 

"Sorry,  immensely  sorry,  old  chap. 
Awful  mess  she's  made.  If  there's  any 
way  I  can" 

"Joseph!"  reiterated  Mrs.  Caswell  from 
the  gateway. 

And  Joseph  obeyed. 

"Have  a  fresh  cigar,  Parkin.  And 
you,  Fremont,"  said  Dr.  Harford,  as  the 
six  left  behind  settled  back  in  their 
chairs  and  hammock  for  a  good  half- 
hour  review  of  Mrs.  Caswell  and  her 


TIMON   UP   TO   DATE. 

mischief-making. 

"By  George!  this  was  an  original  plan 
of  yours,  Harford,"  exclaimed  Fremont. 

"Indeed  it  was,"  murmured  little  Mrs. 
Fremont. 

"It  was  not  my  idea  at  all.  I  got  it 
from  Shakespeare.  Do  you  not  recall  a 
scene  in  'Timon  of  Athens'  where  Timon 
invites  his  false  friends  to  a  banquet  to 
show  them  up?" 

"Well,  you  worked  it  neatly,  anyhow," 
said  Parkin,  who  had  never  read  Shake- 
speare in  his  life. 

"I  had  one  great  advantage  over  'old 
Bill,'  "  continued  Dr.  Harford. 

"In  what  way?"  asked  Mrs.  Parkin, 
smiling  at  him. 

"I  had  the  phonograph." 


The  Night  That  Patti  Sang 

When  I  moved  there  10  years  ago  that 
Franklin-street  block  just  west  of 
Charles  was  even  then  known  as  "Doc- 
tors' Row,"  though  there  was  by  no 
means  the  number  of  professional  men 
the  street  now  has.  From  Dr.  Osier's 
at  the  Charles-street  corner  of  the  south 
side — in  the  old  Colonial  mansion  where 
now  the  Rochambeau  apartments  stand- 
to  Dr.  Alan  P.  Smith's  on  the  north  side 
next  to  the  old  Maryland  Club  building 
at  Cathedral  street,  there  were  in  all 
five  doctors.  And  my  own  shingle — 
newly  painted  in  gilt  letters  as  befitted 
a  specialist  freshly  returned  from  the 
Vienna  hospitals— made  the  sixth  sign  of 
the  kind. 

On  the  south  side  not  far  from  Dr. 
Osier's,  the  front  of  one  of  those  fine 
old  houses  erected  in  the  thirties,  and 
the  homes  of  the  elite  of  Baltimore  for 
many  years  before  Mount  Vernon  place 
was  built  up,  bore  the  announcement  of 

?  JAMES  COURSEY  DUNTON,  M.  D.  ! 

The  sign  was  of  a  very  old  pattern, 
and  was  so  rain-washed  that  the  name 
could  scarcely  be  deciphered.  This,  too, 
was  the  case  with  a  frosted  pane  in  the 
front  window,  on  which— perhaps  40 
years  ago — Dr.  Dunton  had  had  his 
name  painted  in  black  letters.  The 
house,  too,  showed  the  same  lack  of 


07 


THE  NIGHT  THAT   PATTI   SANG. 

paint  and  care. 

In  my  student  days  at  the  Johns  Hop- 
kins Medical  School  I  had  never  heard 
the  name  of  Dr.  Dunton,  and  this  led 
me  to  make  inquiries  of  a  professional 
neighbor.  I  learned  that  Dunton  was  in 
effect  an  elderly  hermit,  that  for  years 
he  had  abandoned  his  practice  and  had 
declined  to  respond  to  calls.  His  self- 
enforced  isolation  had  grown  to  such  a 
degree  that  he  was  rarely  seen  on  the 
street  and  made  all  his  household  pur- 
chases through  notes  stuck  in  his  vesti- 
bule door  for  "order  boys."  "I  have  seen 
Dunton  only  once  in  eight  years,"  said 
my  informant.  "They  say,  too,  he  used 
to  be  an  excellent  practitioner,  an  Edin- 
burgh graduate,  with  a  patronage  of  the 
best  classes — a  courtly  gentleman  who 
was  well  liked  by  his  patients." 

"What  was  the  cause  for  the  change?" 
I  asked. 

"A  love  tragedy  of  some  kind,  they 
told  me,  though  I  never  got  the  details." 

I  developed  a  lively  curiosity  in  the 
elderly  recluse,  and  nearly  every  time  I 
moved  in  or  out  of  my  own  residence,  or 
passed  my  front  windows,  I  glanced 
at  Dr.  Dunton' s  house  in  hopes  of  see- 
ing him.  My  first  glimpse  was,  perhaps, 
a  month  after  I  had  been  told  about 
him.  The  sun  had  gone  down,  save 
where  I  could  see  the  gilded  tops  of  the 
Cathedral  with  a  red  glint  upon  them. 
In  the  half-light  Dr.  Dunton  came  to  his 
second-story  window — I  knew  it  must  be 
he — a  tall,  slender  figure,  somewhat  bent, 
garbed  in  unrelieved  black,  save  for  the 
open  white  collar  of  ante-bellum  style. 
Scant  white  hair  extended  from  his  tem- 


THE  NIGHT   THAT   PATTI   SANG. 

pies  back  over  his  ears  and  framed  a 
face  that  seemed,  in  the  dusk,  refined 
and  kindly,  though  seared  with  many 
wrinkles.  I  watched  the  silent  figure  at 
the  window  unnoticed  by  him,  for  he 
gazed  with  intentness  at  the  vine- 
adorned  front  of  the  old  Unitarian 
Church  at  the  corner,  until  the  real 
darkness  came  upon  us  both. 

It  was,  I  think,  about  a  week  later 
when  I  again  encountered  Dr.  Dunton. 
The  Edmondson-avenue  trolley  line  had 
just  been  completed  up  Charles  street, 
and  for  the  first  time  this  old  residential 
section  resounded  with  the  clangor  that 
betokened  rapid  transit.  About  9  one 
night  I  observed  Dr.  Dunton  stepping 
down  from  the  pavement  of  the  Athe- 
naeum Club  to  cross  the  street.  A  trolley 
car  was  coming  rapidly,  but  the  old  gen- 
tleman, his  head  bent  in  thought  and 
unused  as  he  was  to  modern  inventions 
and  modern  bursts  of  speed,  paid  no  at- 
tention and  moved  in  front  of  it.  The 
motorman  threw  off  his  current,  tried 
to  reverse,  and  rang  his  gong  furiously, 
but  saw  that  he  could  not  stop  in  time 
to  avoid  hitting  the  Doctor.  I  had  bound- 
ed into  the  street,  and  when  the  car 
was  only  half  a  dozen  feet  off  I  was  for- 
tunately able  to  draw  the  old  chap  back 
and  hold  him  clear  of  the  Juggernaut 
that  had  so  nearly  wrought  his  destruc- 
tion. 

His  first  impulse,  as  he  turned  toward 
me,  was  one  of  anger  that  I  had  pre- 
sumed to  intrude  so  violently  upon  his 
thoughts.  Then  he  saw  what  a  narrow 
escape  he  had  had,  and  anger  gave  place 
to  a  courtly  smile  and  a  slight  twinkle 


THE   NIGHT   THAT   PATTI   SANG. 

In  his  sunken  eyes. 

"We  young  fellows  are  not  so  careful 
as  we  ought  to  be,"  he  said.  "I  owe 
you  my  life." 

I  hastened  to  assure  him  that  my  act 
was  one  of  simple  kindness,  but  he  re- 
newed his  expressions  of  thanks  in  even 
more  polished  phrases.  The  car  had 
gone  on  and  we  had  crossed  to  the 
church  corner. 

"I  am  Dr.  Dunton,"  he  said.  "My 
house  is  yonder  and,  though  I  dwell 
alone,  and  with  little  ceremony,  I  will 
be  pleased  to  have  you  partake  of  such 
hospitality  as  I  can  offer." 

I  accepted  with  alacrity.  "I  am  Dr. 
Seaman,"  I  responded.  "I  have  just 
moved  into  the  block."  And  I  indicated 
my  own  home. 

We  crossed  Franklin  street  to  Dr. 
Dunton's  house.  He  opened  the  heavy 
door  with  a  latch-key,  but  before  I 
could  enter  it  was  necessary  for  him  to 
go  ahead  and  light  up.  He  was  profuse 
in  his  apologies  for  the  disorder  of 
everything  as  he  led  me  into  the  room 
behind  the  parlor,  but  beyond  a  thick 
coating  of  dust  the  dark  mahogany 
furniture  showed  no  signs  of  the  ab- 
sence of  servants. 

"I  suppose  you  younger  men  might 
call  this  your  'den,'  "  he  said  as  he  ap- 
plied a  match  to  the  centre  chandelier, 
"butlpreferto  name  it  my  study."  There 
were  rows  upon  rows  of  medical  works 
of  a  past  generation  on  the  shelves 
around  the  room,  a  familiar  bust  of 
Esculapius,  a  skull  or  two,  some  assort- 
ed bones  and  other  signs  of  my  host's 


70 


THE   NIGHT   THAT   PATTI   SANG. 

former  profession.  A  worn  leather  arm- 
chair sat  behind  the  table  under  the 
chandelier,  another  arm-chair  on  the 
right.  Dr.  Dunton  drew  the  latter  forward 
for  me  and  dropped  into  the  other  one. 
As  the  light  fell  full  upon  him  I  noted 
that  he  was  not  only  thin,  but  gaunt, 
and  that  his  face,  which  interested  me 
strangely,  was  marked  by  hollow  places 
that  gave  him  an  almost  uncanny  ap- 
pearance, despite  its  refinement  and  in- 
tellectuality. His  eyes  had  a  haunting 
expression,  as  if  at  times  he  suffered 
much  physical  pain,  and  there  was  a 
sadness  in  them  that  quickened  my  sym- 
pathies. 

For  a  minute  or  so  there  was  silence. 
I  felt  that  he  was  at  a  loss  for  topics 
upon  which  to  converse  on  common 
ground.  Finally  he  said: 

"You  are  the  first  visitor  I  have  had 
here  since  poor  Wallis  sat  in  that  chair 
a  dozen  years  ago." 

"You  mean  Mr.  Wallis  the  lawyer?" 
I  asked. 

"He  was  my  good  friend  in  many  dark 
days,"  he  answered  gently.  I  felt  that 
he  was  slipping  away  from  me  into  the 
past. 

"You  must  have  it  lonely  here,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"Not  lonely,"  was  the  response.  "I 
live  with  my  memories." 

The  shadow  on  his  face  grew  deeper. 

"Why  not  practice  your  profession," 
I  hazarded,  "and  forget  some  part  of 
your  past  sorrows  in  a  busy  life?" 

He  leaned  forward,  looking  intently  at 
me  and  yet  beyond.  "Ah!  lad,"  he  said, 


71 


THE  NIGHT  THAT   PATTI   SANG. 

as  he  laid  a  thin  hand  upon  my  wrist, 
"if  you  but  knew,  if  you  but  knew!  I 
tried  hard,  and  then  I  found  I  couldn't, 
and  then  I  gave  up  trying.  There  are 
griefs  so  great  that  one  cannot  lose 
them  until  the  last  sleep.  I  am  not 
lonely,  for  I  have  Her  always  with  me 
here." 

It  was  best  for  me  to  remain  silent. 
He  was  almost  unaware  of  my  pres- 
ence. I  felt  he  would  go  on  if  I  did  not 
divert  his  train  of  thought. 

"Night  after  night  She  sits  here  with 
me,"  he  pursued;  "day  after  day  She  is 
by  my  side.  In  spirit  the  loving  com- 
panionship I  sought  is  ever  mine,  and 
yet,  great  God,  how  different!"  His  face 
he  buried  in  his  hands.  In  my  eyes  the 
tears  could  not  be  kept  back. 

Presently  he  rose  from  his  seat  and 
moved  to  the  wall  next  to  the  parlor. 
To  my  surprise,  the  pressure  of  his  fin- 
ger against  a  spot  in  the  wooden  door 
pillar  opened  up  a  secret  cupboard  in 
the  partition.  The  Doctor  reached  in  and 
lifted  out  an  arm  chair  of  the  same 
pattern  as  that  upon  which  I  was  seated. 
It  was  heavy  and  I  jumped  to  aid  him, 
but  he  negatived  me  with  a  short,  sharp 
twist  of  his  head.  As  he  came  into  the 
full  light  I  saw  that  the  chair  contained 
a  woman's  cloak,  one  of  shimmery  gray 
satin,  but  now  sadly  faded  and  time- 
stained.  Reverently  he  lifted  the  cloak 
and  laid  it  across  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"That's  as  it  was  the  night  she  sat 
there  and  passed  away,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor. 

For  several  minutes  there  was  no 
word  between  us.  The  Doctor,  his  mouth 

72 


THE   NIGHT  THAT   PATTI   SANG. 

twitching,    his    thoughts    far    from    me, 
stared  intently  at  the  old  cloak. 

"How  I  loved  her,  how  I  loved  her!" 
he  finally  murmured.  Again  he  was  be- 
coming aware  of  my  presence.  "You 
can't  understand,  sir,  the  depth  of  my 
devotion.  It  stood  the  test  of  years— it 
stood  even  her  marriage  to  another." 

Another  pause. 

"She  was  the  prettiest  and  merriest 
child  you  ever  saw,"  he  finally  went  on. 
"Had  she  been  an  Indian  maid  they 
would  have  called  her  'Dancing  Sun- 
shine.' But  being  just  a  Baltimore  girl, 
with  her  parents  more  fond  of  reading 
Scott  than  of  any  other  literature  save 
the  Bible,  she  was  named  Geraldine. 
You  remember  that  line  in  the  'Lay  of 
the  Last  Minstrel": 
The  fair  and  lovely  form,  the  Lady  Geraldine. 

"That's  where  she  got  her  romantic 
and  historic  name.  To  us  boys— my 
brother  Tom  and  myself— she  was  al- 
ways Dina.  She  was  our  cousin.  Her 
father  had  died  when  she  was  but  a 
babe.  So  had  my  mother,  and  Aunt 
Patty  thenceforth  was  the  housewife 
with  us.  Father  was  one  of  those  mer- 
chants and  ship  owners  who  have  long 
passed  away  in  Baltimore.  No  firm  was 
better  known  around  the  Basin  than 
that  of  Dunton  &  Jameson,  and  no  clip- 
per ships  were  faster  than  those  with 
the  Dunton  signal. 

"Dina  was  Tom's  age,  some  years 
younger  than  I,  but  both  of  us  made  her 
our  playmate.  We  didn't  have  the  hun- 
dred and  one  diversions  and  sports  that 
young  people  seem  to  have  nowadays- 
no  suburban  clubs,  no  motoring,  little 


73 


THE   NIGHT   THAT   PATTI   SANG. 

driving.  We  roamed  through  Howard's 
woods  around  and  beyond  the  Washing- 
ton Monument,  and  we  strolled  the  banks 
of  the  'canal'  that  used  to  parallel  Jones' 
Falls  down  there  above  Centre  street. 
And  in  all  our  rambles  and  excursions 
Dina  was  our  joyous,  care-free  com- 
panion. I  can  see  her  now,  as  she  was 
at  14,  a  simply  dressed  school  girl,  with 
her  olive  complexion,  her  clear,  trustful 
gray  eyes,  her  trim,  petite,  lissom  figure 
and  her  rosebud  mouth,  ready  ever  to 
kiss  either  of  us  in  fond  sisterly  affec- 
tion. 

"She  was  16  when  I  was  sent  to  Edin- 
burgh on  one  of  father's  ships,  to  be- 
come a  doctor.  For  once  her  laughter 
deserted  her,  and  the  last  picture  I  had 
of  her  as  our  boat  headed  down  the 
Patapsco  on  a  bright,  blue  morning  was 
of  a  tearful  miss  on  Bowly's  wharf, 
waving  a  bedewed  handkerchief  and 
watching  through  misty  eyes  the  going 
of  Cousin  Jim  across  the  water.  There 
had  been  a  tender  farewell  between  us, 
and  though  no  word  of  love  was  spoken, 
I  tell  you,  lad,  I  knew  I  was  leaving  my 
heart  behind. 

"My  three  years  in  Scotland  were  ones 
of  hard  work,  and  the  chief  joy  I  knew 
came  with  Dina's letters.  The  mails  were 
slow  in  those  days,  and  they  came  too 
uncertainly  for  me,  you  may  be  sure. 
But  each  brought  me,  in  addition  to  a 
budget  of  news,  just  a  bit  of  Dina's 
lovely  personality.  I  saw  her,  in  her 
letters,  growing  into  sweet  womanhood, 
and,  as  I  sometimes  stretched  myself  in 
meditation  on  Arthur's  Seat,  far  above 
old  Edinburgh,  my  thoughts  were  not 

74 


THE   NIGHT   THAT   PATTI   SANG. 

of  the  city,  nor  of  my  own  lifework,  but 
of  the  little  girl  at  home. 

"I  was  just  completing  my  course, 
when  there  came  my  first  terrible  blow. 
A  letter  came  from  Dina,  the  first  in 
two  months,  and  it  brought  me  word, 
lad,  that  she  was  married!  Married! 
Just  think  of  it!  And  to  Tom.  He  had 
been  with  Watson  and  Ringgold  in  the 
Mexican  War,  and  clippings  they  sent 
me  had  recounted  the  bravery  of  young 
Captain  Dunton.  I  confess  to  you,  sir, 
that  for  days  I  had  murder  in  my  heart, 
and  against  my  own  brother.  I  went  off 
on  a  walking  trip  in  the  Trossachs,  and 
a  savage  time  I  had  of  it  with  myself; 
I  had  schemes  of  petty  revenge;  I  abused 
Dina;  I  vowed  she  could  not  love  Tom; 
that  she  must  have  been  swept  off  her 
feet  by  the  brass  buttons  and  the  war 
glamour  about  him. 

"By  the  time  I  came  back  to  Balti- 
more I  had  regained  self-control,  and 
when  I  met  Tom  and  his  wife  it  was 
with  the  determination  to  do  everything 
for  Dina's  happiness,  even  though  she 
were  another's.  I  was  not  wrong  in  my 
prophecy  that  she  would  develop  into 
sweet  womanhood,  only  I  underestimated 
it.  In  all  our  circle  of  acquaintances  in 
Baltimore  there  was  no  more  beautiful 
young  matron  than  Mrs.  Dunton;  no 
more  sprightly  and  piquant  bride;  no 
hostess  more  gracious,  as  she  presided 
over  the  dinners  and  'small  and  early' 
affairs  that  were  given  at  our  home  here. 

"But,  alas!  it  was  not  long  before  sor- 
rows came  to  her.  Tom  began  to  drink 
heavily.  He  got  in  with  a  gay  set  at 
Barnum's  Hotel,  his  hours  grew  irregu- 


75 


THE  NIGHT  THAT   PATTI   SANG. 

lar,  his  absences  from  home  more  num- 
erous and  more  prolonged.  Father  and 
I  remonstrated  ineffectually,  at  first 
pleadingly  and  then  in  anger.  We  did 
our  best  to  keep  Dina  ignorant  of  some 
of  the  worst  stories  out  concerning 
Tom's  dissipation,  but  she  knew.  And 
though  she  loyally  never  criticised  him 
in  talking  to  us,  we  saw  the  joy  fade  out 
of  her  heart  and  lips,  and  the  glint  of 
ineffaceable  sadness  come  into  those 
pure  gray  eyes.  God  only  knows  what 
she  suffered  in  the  nine  years  before 
death,  invited  by  alcohol,  came  and  took 
Tom. 

"It  may  sound  brutal,  but  I  was  glad 
when  besotted  Tom  was  gone.  It  ended 
Dina's  terrible  worry,  it  relieved  father 
and  myself  of  unexplainable  trouble,  ex- 
pense and  annoyance,  it  laid  to  rest  a 
family  skeleton  of  whose  existence  all 
Baltimore  seemed  to  know.  And  deep 
down  in  my  heart,  I  confess  it,  there 
was  a  thrill  that  the  woman  I  loved 
above  all  was  free. 

"Of  course,  being  a  true  woman,  and  a 
tender-hearted  one,  Dina  grieved  long 
over  Tom's  death.  She  had  loved  him 
sincerely  despite  his  grievous  faults,  and 
ours  was  a  melancholy  household  for 
another  year.  In  those  days  our  women 
wore  deep  black  mourning  and  veils,  and 
sombre,  indeed,  was  Dina  as  she  went 
out  to  church,  to  Tom's  grave,  or  to 
half  a  dozen  poor  households  she  had 
taken  under  her  wing.  But  most  of  the 
time  she  was  at  home  ministering  to 
father,  whose  declining  health  was  a 
cause  of  alarm  to  both  of  us. 

"Presently  I  began  to  urge  her  to  go 


70 


THE  NIGHT   THAT   PATTI   SANG. 

about  with  me.  At  first  she  said  no, 
then  with  her  characteristic  considerate- 
ness  she  seemed  unwilling  to  hurt  me  by 
refusing  further.  I  took  her  to  the 
homes  of  our  friends  for  an  evening  of 
music  or  whist,  or  to  an  occasional  pub- 
lic concert.  The  color  began  to  come 
back  into  the  cheeks  whence  it  had 
been  so  long  absent,  and  that  glint  of 
grief  in  the  gray  eyes  grew  dimmer.  I 
spoke  no  word  of  love,  but  unobtrusively 
carried  on  a  campaign  to  let  her  see 
how  badly  I  yearned  for  her.  The  new 
books,  the  best  sweets,  the  prettiest 
flowers,  such  delicate  compliments  as 
sincerity  could  dictate — all  these  I  gave 
her  and  watched  patiently  to  see  the 
dawning  of  love  on  her  part.  I  had  al- 
ways had  her  fond  affection,  but  I 
wanted  more  and  strove  in  every  way  to 
gain  it. 

"Two  years  passed  and  there  came  a 
night  memorable  in  Baltimore  when  18- 
year-old  Adelina  Patti— a  singer  in  the 
first  flush  of  youth  and  beauty,  fresh 
from  triumphs  in  New  York — was 
brought  to  Holliday-Street  Theatre  to 
sing  'La  Somnambula.'  Strakosch  had 
stirred  up  a  furore  about  Patti  and 
Brignoli  in  Gotham,  and  Baltimore  was 
curious  to  hear  them.  I  took  Dina, 
and  proud  was  I  of  her  beauty  and  her 
sweet  garb  as  we  sat  in  the  midst  of  a 
hundred  acquaintances  in  an  audience 
the  newspapers  called  'brilliant.'  She 
had  abandoned  black  and  wore  a  satin 
gown  of  a  soft  color,  shimmery  and 
splendidly  adorned  with  lace.  Her  ma- 
tured beauty  seemed  to  me  more  glor- 
ious than  the  promise  of  childhood, 


77 


THE   NIGHT   THAT   PATTI   SANG. 

which  had  first  captured  me.  She  was  en- 
tranced with  the  music,  but  I  had  no 
ears  for  the  diva,  and  was  there  only  to 
enjoy  the  divinity  by  my  side.  I  had  a 
feeling  that  the  end  of  my  probation 
was  near.  I  believed  she  would  say 
'yes'  should  I  ask  her,  and  I  determined 
to  do  so  that  night. 

"After  we  had  gotten  away  from  our 
friends  she  talked  animatedly  of  the 
opera  in  the  carriage,  and  I  listened 
contentedly  all  the  while  I  kept  saying 
'Tonight,  Jim,  tonight!'  As  we  came 
into  the  house  she  led  the  way  into  this 
office,  and  with  a  smile  dropped  into 
that  chair  you  see.  She  allowed  me  to 
unfasten  her  opera  cloak  and  draw  it 
across  the  back  of  the  chair,  but  she 
playfully  bade  me  sit  down,  when  I  let 
my  arm  steal  caressingly  about  her 
neck.  Ah!  man,  if  you  could  but  know 
how  I  loved  her  that  minute!" 

The  Doctor's  voice  broke.  There  were 
tears  in  his  eyes.  As  for  me,  I  was  pro- 
foundly moved,  and  my  own  eyelashes 
were  wet. 

"I  passed  into  the  dining-room  to  get 
her  some  sherry  and  cake.  I  was  gone 
but  a  moment,  but  in  that  instant  she 
was  lost  to  me  forever." 

The  veins  in  the  old  man's  forehead 
stood  out  like  whipcords.  He  resumed 
fiercely  after  a  pause: 

"She  was  dead,  sir.  She  was  dead. 
She  sat  in  the  same  position  in  that 
chair  as  when  I  had  left  her,  but  her 
hand  clutched  her  side  and  the  smile  she 
had  given  me  was  replaced  by  a  sharp 
contraction,  as  if  from  pain.  Swiftly  her 
heart  action  had  been  gripped  by  an  un- 


THE   NIGHT  THAT   PATTI   SANG. 

seen  force  and  stopped  forever.  I  grew 
frantic  when  I  found  I  could  not  revive 
her;  I  shrieked  aloud  in  the  agony  of 
my  heart,  and  father  and  the  servants 
rushed  here  in  alarm.  They  tell  me  I 
was  mad  for  days;  that  I  raved  and 
called  incessantly.  I  do  not  remember. 
I  knew  nothing  for  a  long  time,  and 
then  I  cursed  myself  for  living  on  when 
memory  returned.  Twice  I  had  lost  her — 
once  by  marriage  and  once  by  death — 
and  the  joy  of  living  was  never  to  be 
mine  again.  I  have  survived,  sir,  these 
many  years.  I  buried  Father  after  Dina, 
and  I  am  alone  here.  But,  God,  man! 
I  died  long  ago.  My  soul  is  with  her 
I  adored." 

He  arose  and  I  followed.  I  felt  that 
he  meant  to  end  our  talk.  He  wiped 
away  the  tears  from  his  cheek  with  a 
silk  handkerchief,  and  then,  placing  his 
gaunt  hand  on  my  right  shoulder,  he 
moved  his  face  close  to  mine  and  spoke 
earnestly: 

"I  never  dare  visit  her  grave  in  Green- 
mount.  I  am  afraid  of  myself.  But  if 
you  can,  to  please  an  old  man  whose 
wretched  life  you  have  saved  tonight, 
will  you  go  there  some  time  and  see  that 
her  resting  place  has  been  tended  rever- 
ently? I  have  paid  them  for  it." 

I  promised  him  I  would,  and  then  I 
passed  out  into  the  starlit  night  with  a 
thousand  impressions  of  the  terrible 
tragedy  of  this  man's  life  crowding  my 
excited  brain.  I  could  not  sleep,  and  I 
lay  in  bed  for  hours  reconstructing  the 
tale  and  fancying  many  details  he  had 
not  supplied.  The  next  morning  I  went 
to  the  Dunton  lot  in  Greenmount  and 


79 


THE  NIGHT   THAT   PATTI  SANG. 

found  it  well  cared  for.  Over  his  loved 
Dina's  grave  was  a  handsome  stone  of 
Carrara  marble,  with  this  inscription: 


GERALDINE, 
Beloved  wife  of  Thomas  Bowly 

Dunton. 
Passed  away  suddenly, 

1860. 

Aged  30  years. 
"God  is  love." 


On  one  side  was  the  grave  of  the  ill- 
fated  Tom.  On  the  other  the  green  turf 
waited  to  be  disturbed  to  make  room  for 
the  last  of  the  Duntons,  and  there,  on 
a  raw  day  in  the  following  March,  I  saw 
the  body  of  the  old  Doctor  laid  beside 
her  whom  he  had  loved  so  long  and  with 
such  overwhelming  sorrow. 


An  Island  On  A  Jamboree 

For  three  days  the  shipping  of  Balti- 
more, large  and  small,  had  been  held  in 
leash  by  a  great  storm  upon  the  bay. 
One  of  those  West  India  autumn  hurri- 
canes coming  suddenly  had  whipped  the 
Chesapeake  into  such  a  fury  with  Us 
fierce  southeast  blow  that  steamboats 
and  small  sailing  craft  alike  heeded  the 
Weather  Bureau  warning  and  remained 
In  Baltimore. 

On  the  third  night  the  gale  had  spent 
its  fury,  and,  with  a  rising  barometer 
and  a  favorable  Government  forecast, 
Captain  Cromwell,  eager  to  get  home, 
ventured  out  with  his  bugeye  as  soon  as 
the  dawn  came.  The  Patapsco  was  full 
of  white  caps,  but  the  wind  had  softened 
and  the  skies  were  clear,  and  the  Tuck- 
ahoe  met  with  no  misadventure  as  it 
passed  down.  A  hundred  other  vessels 
were  making  ready  to  follow,  but  he  had 
the  start  of  them  and  the  river  to  him- 
self. In  a  few  hours  he  would  be  with 
his  family  at  Rock  Hall. 

But  as  he  rounded  Seven-Foot  Knoll 
and  headed  across  the  bay  he  suddenly 
grew  excited,  and  shouted  the  name  of 
his  favorite  patron,  the  great  Jehosha- 
phat. 

Then  he  yelled  to  his  crew: 

"What  in  the  devil  is  that  ahead,  you 
lazy  loafer?" 

The  crew  rose  up  en  masse — being  only 
one — from  its  lolling  position  beside  the 


AN  ISLAND  ON  A  JAMBOREE. 

mainmast,  and  looked  out  over  the  dis- 
turbed waters.  And  then  it  was  the 
crew's  turn  to  become  excited. 

"Golly,  Cap.  Jim,  I  ain't  never  done 
seen  nuthin'  like  "that  afore.  What  the 
debbil  am  it?" 

The  commander  of  the  Tuckahoe  re- 
sponded: 

"I'll  be  jiggered  if  I  know." 

The  crew  instinctively  moved  back  to 
a  position  close  to  the  master,  and  both, 
with  mixed  feelings  of  alarm  and  curios- 
ity, concentrated  their  gaze  upon  the 
strange  sight  that  had  aroused  them. 

"I've  been  running  to  Baltimore  these 
ten  years,  John  Washington,"  said  the 
Captain  to  the  crew,  "and  I've  seen  queer 
things  on  the  bay  and  the  river. 
I'll  never  forget  how  them  blamed  naval 
fellers  from  Annapolis  frightened  me  by 
coming  up  out  of  the  water  with  one  of 
them  durned  submarines.  But  I'll  be 
blowed  if  ever  I  have  seen  anything  to 
beat  this.  There  warn't  no  island  out 
there  when  we  run  past  the  Knoll  go- 
ing up." 

"  'Deed  there  warn't,  Cap.  Jim.  Golly, 
I'se  scared,  I  is.  Ain't  you  'fraid  it's  one 
of  Satan's  traps,  Cap.  Jim?  The  debbil 
am  mighty  cunnin",  you  knows  dat." 

"Devil  or  not,  John,  I'm  going  to  see 
what  it  really  is." 

And  the  captain  of  the  Tuckahoe 
gave  the  command  "Hard  lee!"  so  as  to 
head  the  bay  craft  more  directly  toward 
the  centre  of  the  mysterious  island  that 
they  had  discovered.  It  was  now  about 
a  half  mile  distant  and,  as  seen  in  the 
morning  light,  low-lying  and  ten  acres 
or  so  in  extent.  Its  most  peculiar  fea- 


AX  ISLAND  OX  A  JAMBOREE. 

ture  to  the  pair  on  the  bugeye  was  a 
grove  of  tall  trees,  naked  to  a  height  of 
60  or  80  feet,  and  then  crowned  by  enor- 
mous spreading  leaves,  or  branches. 

"Them's  powerful  funny  trees,  Cap. 
Jim,"  said  the  colored  deckhand,  doubt- 
fully." 

"Never  seen  anything  like  'em  in  this 
bay  before,"  replied  Captain  Cromwell. 
"I  ain't  never  been  in  the  tropics,  John, 
but  they  look  mighty  like  pictures  of  co- 
coanut  palms." 

"Tropics,  Cap.  Jim?" 

"Yes;  the  West  Indies." 

"In  de  name  of  de  Lawd,  Cap.  Jim, 
how  dem  trees  done  get  here  from  de 
West  Indies?  Dat  a  long  way  off,  ain't 
it?" 

Captain  Cromwell  made  no  reply.  He 
was  too  intently  studying  the  island. 
All  of  a  sudden  he  was  startled  by  his 
crew  sinking  on  its  knees  on  the  deck 
with  an  exclamation.  He  turned  and 
saw  the  negro's  skin  blanched  with  ter- 
ror. 

"Fo"  de  Lawd  Gawd,  Cap.  Jim,  dat 
thing  am  movin'." 

"Skidoo,  John,  skidoo,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, skeptically. 

"  'Deed  an'  double-deed,  it  is,  Cap. 
Jim.  You  jes'  look  behind  it  ober  dar  at 
Kent  Island." 

The  Captain  peered  as  directed,  while 
the  negro  eyed  him  doubtfully. 

"Great  Jehoshaphat!"  the  white  man 
cried.  "You're  right,  John,  you're  right. 
That  there  island  is  a-movin'  up  the 
bay." 

"Ain't  yer  skeered,-  Cap.  Jim?"  asked 


AN  ISLAND  ON  A  JAMBOREE. 

the  crew,  with  a  shudder.  "  'Pears  to  me 
it's  mighty  like  de  debbil." 

Captain  Cromwell  was  doubtful  him- 
self. He  laid  his. hand  on  the  tiller  and 
was  about  to  change  his  course  when  he 
made  a  fresh  discovery. 

"There's  a  man  on  that  island,  as  I'm 
a-livin',"  he  exclaimed. 

"Whar  is  he,  Cap.  Jim?"  cried  the 
negro. 

"Right  by  that  grove  of  trees,  John. 
He's  waving  his  arms  at  us.  He's  stand- 
ing by  some  kind  of  a  hut  and  there's 
a  tall  pole  with  the  stars  and  stripes 
turned  upside  down." 

"Maybe  dey's  pirates,  Cap.  Jim." 
Visions  of  the  dreaded  skull  and  cross- 
bones  and  of  a  horrible  death  at  the 
yardarm,  whatever  that  was,  made  John 
Washington's  teeth  and  knees  knock 
together  violently. 

"Pirates,  the  deuce!  They're  Amer- 
icans that  want  help." 

"And  is  you  gwine  close,  Cap.  Jim? 
Lawdy." 

The  crew  started  forward  and  the 
Captain  held  the  bugeye  to  its  course 
to  the  strange  island.  The  man  by  the 
grove  of  palms  waved  his  arms  and  ran 
toward  the  shore  nearest  to  them.  He 
shouted  several  times,  but  Captain 
Cromwell  could  not  hear  him.  Finally, 
the  mar  picked  up  a  huge  leaf,  and, 
twisting  it  into  a  cornucopia  shape, 
made  a  megaphone  of  it.  With  this  aid 
his  voice  came  floating  over  the  bay. 

"Keep  off!"  he  called.  "There  is  a 
sunken  reef  on  this  side.  Head  for  the 
cove."  He  pointed  to  the  north  end  of 


AN  ISLAND  ON  A  JAMBOREE. 

the  floating  mass,  and  Captain  Crom- 
well put  about.  The  island,  now  that  he 
was  close,  appeared  to  be  making  good 
headway — at  least  four  or  five  miles  an 
hour.  There  was  a  swish  and  a  swirl  of 
water  on  the  sides  that  showed  it  would 
have  been  folly  to  have  run  in  shore 
there.  But  after  he  had  rounded  a  hum- 
mock of  glistening  sand  he  saw  the 
cove,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  had  en- 
tered it  and  discovered  a  roughly  con- 
structed wharf.  John  Washington  re- 
luctantly obeyed  a  sharp  order  to  take  in 
sail,  and,  with  the  aid  of  the  stranger 
ashore,  the  Tuckahoe  was  presently 
moored. 

Captain  Cromwell's  first  impulse  was 
to  laugh  at  a  near  view  of  the  man  on 
the  island.  "Powerful  funny  lookin'," 
was  John  Washington's  comment.  His 
hair  and  whiskers  were  of  the  red  hue 
that  could  never  by  courtesy  be  called 
auburn.  Both  whiskers  and  hair  were 
long  and  ragged  and  would  have  pro- 
voked despair  in  any  aseptic  barber 
shop  in  Baltimore.  For  coat  the  islander 
had  on  a  baggy  affair,  roughly  fash- 
ioned out  of  jute,  and  his  trousers  were 
of  sailcloth,  cut  in  a  style  that  would 
not  have  met  the  approval  of  a  Mary- 
land Club  member.  He  was  thick-set, 
with  a  slight  stoop.  His  wrists  were 
tattooed,  his  hands  horny.  His  eyes  were 
a  placid  blue  pair.  Above  the  left  one 
was  a  scar. 

"Where  in  blazes  am  I?"  he  yelled  to 
Captain  Cromwell  as  the  Tuckahoe  was 
nearing  the  wharf.  "Blazes"  is  a  mild 
translation  of  the  expletive  actually  em- 


S.5 


AN  ISLAND  ON  A  JAMBOREE. 

ployed. 

"Chesapeake  bay,  mate."  ) 

"Chesapeake  bay!  Jiminy  crickets! 
Blown  all  the  way  from  the  Bahamas! 
Well,  I'm  danged!" 

"How  did  it  happen?"  asked  the  mas- 
ter of  the  Tuckahoe.  The  newest  Rob- 
inson Crusoe  didn't  hear  him. 

"How  in  blazes  did  I  pass  in  the  Capes 
and  not  know  it?"  Again  "blazes"  is 
putting  it  mildly.  "Durned  thick,  nasty 
weather  yesterday.  Couldn't  see  a  half 
mile.  Must  a  passed  in  then.  How  far 
up  am  I?" 

"Mouth  of  the  Patapsco." 

"By  jinks,  so  it  is.  I  might  a  knowed 
it.  There's  the  Knoll.  And  there's  North 
P'lnt.  Many's  the  time  I  sighted  them 
when  I  used  to  run  here  in  a  five-master 
from  Bath." 

"How  did  you  come— this  time?"  again 
asked  Captain  Cromwell. 

Again  his  curiosity  had  to  watt.  "Got 
a  quid  of  'baccy,  mate?"  asked  the  red- 
bearded  man  as  he  stood  on  the  wharf  be- 
side the  bugeye.  "Ain't  had  a  chaw  in 
four  years."  He  seized  eagerly  the  plug 
that  was  handed  to  him,  broke  off  a 
generous  "chaw"  and  thrust  it  into  his 
mouth.  Then,  and  not  until  then,  did  he 
make  reply. 

"How  did  I  come?  Caught  in  a  sou'- 
easter, that's  all.  Nastiest  storm  you 
ever  want  to  see.  Hit  us  suddenly  five 
nights  ago.  Them  palms  was  bent  dou- 
ble with  the  wind.  Lord  only  knows 
why  my  mansion  yonder  didn't  go.  After 
while  sort  a  felt  we  were  driftin'.  When 
mornin'  broke  there  was  my  kingdom 


AN  ISLAND  ON  A  JAMBOREE. 

afloat  in  the  ocean  cut  in  two,  me  alone 
on  this  bit  and  the  biggest  half  gone  off 
with  my  subjects  on  It." 

"Subjects?" 

"Yes,  my  people." 

The  Captain  looked  at  John  and  John 
edged  off  from  the  stranger  and  made  a 
sign  suggestive  of  deficient  mentality. 

"Your  people?"  asked  Captain  Crom- 
well. 

"Yes,  man.  Why,  I  am  the  King  of 
Tortilla  Key." 

John  renewed  the  aforesaid  sign  and 
edged  still  farther  away.  Captain  Crom- 
well laughed.  The  stranger  chimed  in. 

"Does  sound  funny,  don't  it.  Fact  is  I 
made  myself  King.  I've  got  a  crown  up 
at  the  palace  there.  Rusty  tin  saucepan 
afore  I  knocked  the  bottom  out." 

The  Captain  laughed  again. 

"You're  an  odd  fish,"  he  remarked. 
"What  was  your  name  before  you  were 
King?" 

"Me?  Oh!  I'm  a  'down  Easter.'  Peleg 
Timrod  of  Squan,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A.  Of 
course,  I  knowed  Peleg  was  no  royal 
name,  so  I  just  dubbed  myself  Victor 
Fust  when  I  annexed  this  here  island." 

"It  ain't  much  of  a  kingdom." 

"About  four  times  as  large  as  you  see 
afore  the  rest  broke  away.  Anyway,  I 
thought  it  a  mighty  big  place  when  I 
got  tossed  up  here  goin'  on  four  year 
ago.  I'd  been  afloat  on  the  roof 
of  a  deckhouse  for  three  days  arter  the 
fruiter  Bainbridge  were  cast  away,  and 
I  tell  you,  mate,  I  was  powerful  glad  to 
hit  any  old  kind  of  terra  flrma  then. 
The  bunch  of  natives  who  fed  me  and 


87 


AN  ISLAND  ON  A  JAMBOREE. 

sheltered  me  was  a  kind  lot.  They  didn't 
seem  to  belong  to  no  country  in  partikler, 
and  though  I  knowed  Britain  claimed 
the  Bahamas,  I  jes'  kind  a  thought 
Teddy  might  want  the  place  for  a  coal- 
ing station  some  time.  So  I  let  'em  know 
I  was  their  King,  and  I  reckon  I  ain't 
had  any  more  trouble  with  them  than 
Peter  Leary  had  in  Guam.  Of  course, 
I  couldn't  make  it  plain  to  'em  how  the 
Constitution  follows  the  flag,  'cos  I 
didn't  know  myself." 

"Where  did  you  get  your  American 
flag?" 

"American  flag,  mate?"  Victor  I.  was 
offended.  "Why,  bless  you,  that  ain't 
no  stars  and  stripes.  That  there's  the 
flag  of  Tortilla.  There's  no  stars  there. 
The  red's  my  old  undershirt,  the  blue  I 
found  thrown  up  in  the  surf  one  day 
and  the  white  is  a  bit  of  sail  I  had  with 
me  when  I  dropped  in  to  take  my  throne. 
That  flag  means  business.  I" 

His  Majesty  was  interrupted  by  a 
shout  from  John  Washington: 

"Golly,  Cap.  Jim,  the  island's  stopped!" 

"Stopped,  you  lunkhead?" 

"Yes,  Cap.  Jim.  It  ain't  movin'  no 
more.  I'se  been  watchin'  Poole's  Island 
yonder,  and  we  done  ceased." 

"Maybe  it's  aground,"  suggested  the 
King>" 

"Maybe  it  is,"  replied  the  Rock  Hall 
captain,  "but  it's  more  likely  to  have 
run  into  a  current  down  the  bay  from 
the  Susquehanna.  It's  just  as  well  for 
you,  I  guess,  or  you'd  a  bumped  into 
Cecil  county  so  hard  you  wouldn't  a 
voted  next  'lection." 

For  some  minutes  the  trio  studied  the 


AN  ISLAND  ON  A  JAMBOREE. 

island  and  its  surroundings  with  intent- 
ness.  The  King  was  the  first  to  notice 
when  his  kingdom  got  to  moving  again. 

"It's  headin'  down  the  bay  this  time," 
he  cheerily  declared.  "Reckon  you  were 
right  about  getting  into  a  current. 
S'pose  I'm  off  on  another  cruise." 

"Sail  away  with  me,  and  let  it  go," 
urged  Captain  Cromwell. 

"What!  desert  my  kingdom  in  such  a 
economic  crisis!  Not  this  King.  No, 
siree.  Victor  I.  stays  right  here  as  long 
as  there's  a  Tortilla  to  king  it  over. 
There's  no  kin  in  Squan  to  lament  the 
loss  of  Peleg  Timrod,  and  I've  had  a  bully 
time  here.  Plenty  of  bananas,  pineap- 
ples and  cocoanuts  to  live  on,  no  work 
to  do,  and  a  couple  of  queens  to  boot." 

"Queens?"  cried  Captain  Cromwell. 

"Golly!"  exclaimed  his  crew. 

"Yes;  two  as  fine-looking  girls  as 
you'd  want  to  see.  I'm  powerful  sorry 
they  ain't  here  now  to  give  you  a  royal 
welcome.  They're  gone  with  the  rest  of 
the  island  and  the  rest  of  the  subjects. 
I  miss  *em." 

Victor  I.  sighed.  Then  he  resumed 
after  a  pause: 

"Women  certainly  are  the  curiousest 
things.  They're  the  same  everywhere. 
Life's  no  good  without  'em,  and  they 
plague  you  to  death  while  you're  trying 
to  live  with  'em.  Now,  there's  those  two 
queens.  I  loved  both,  and  yet  I  had  such 
trouble  with  'em  last  week  I  made  'em 
go  home  to  their  father's  hut.  Ain't  I 
sorry  they  wasn't  at  the  palace  when 
the  sou'easter  came! 

"How   did   I  get   'em?  Oh,   they  were 


AN  ISLAND  ON  A  JAMBOREE. 

given  to  me  when  I  first  came  to  Tor- 
tilla. You  see,  when  I  got  throwed  up 
here  there  was  a  family  of  natives,  eight 
in  all — the  old  man,  the  old  woman, 
three  daughters,  the  husband  of  one  of 
them  and  two  young  boys.  The  two 
girls  who  didn't  have  no  husbands  took 
a  shine  to  me  as  soon  as  I  came  and  dad 
just  passed  me  along  to  both.  That  was 
before  I  declaimed  myself  King.  I  was 
brought  up  in  Sunday-school  all  right 
and  I  knowed  well  only  Turks  and  Mor- 
mons had  two  wives  at  a  time.  But,  un- 
der the  circumstances,  I  couldn't  offend 
anybody,  so  I  just  took  both.  Eugenie— 
that's  the  name  I  give  her— she  could 
cook  and  keep  house  out  of  sight.  The 
little  one— Marie  Antoinette— was  the 
cutest  and  soon  had  the  biggest  corner 
of  my  heart.  That's  what  got  me  into 
trouble.  You  see,  new  clothes  was 
scarce  on  Tortilla,  and  when  I  gave  a 
bit  of  my  old  sail  to  Marie  Antoinette 
for  a  Sunday-go-to-meetin'  dress  and 
didn't  give  none  to  Eugenie  their  oldest 
sister  put  the  devil  into  Eugenie's  head. 

She"; 

The  further  recital  of  the  tale  of  a 
pair  of  queens  was  cut  short  by  a  ter- 
rible roaring.  A  piece  of  the  island  be- 
hind the  wharf  broke  loose  and  sank  into 
the  bay  with  a  suddenness  that  put  the 
Tuckahoe  in  dire  peril.  The  wave  that 
followed  the  engulfing  of  an  acre  of  land 
lifted  the  little  bugeye  and  nearly  cap- 
sized it,  at  the  same  time  ripping  the 
wharf  to  pieces  and  snapping  the  moor- 
ings. Captain  Cromwell  and  his  negro 
sprang  to  the  tiller  and  succeeded  in 
steadying  her.  When  they  had  time  to 


00 


AN  ISLAND  ON  A  JAMBOREE. 

look  about  them  they  saw  the  red-headed 
King  in  the  water  a  hundred  feet  away, 
swimming  for  what  was  left  of  his 
kingdom. 

"Come  nearer;  I'll  throw  you  a  line," 
shouted  Captain  Cromwell. 

"No;  I'll  stick  to  my  kingdom,"  an- 
swered Victor  I.,  alias  Peleg  Timrod. 
"You'd  better  sheer  off;  you'll  hit  a  coral 
reef  or  get  drawn  under." 

The  Tuckahoe's  master  saw  that  it 
was  good  advice,  and  he  ordered  John 
Washington  to  hoist  sail.  By  the  time 
this  was  done  they  were  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  out  in  the  bay,  and  Victor  I.,  wet 
and  dripping,  was  again  on  his  terra 
firma. 

"Goodbye,"  yelled  the  bay  captain. 

"Bye-bye,"  returned  the  King,  noncha- 
lantly. 

And  soon  he  was  but  a  speck  on  the 
strand  of  the  floating  island,  which  was 
making  good  progress  southward. 

For  half  an  hour  Tortilla  Key  was  vis- 
ible in  the  bay.  Captain  Cromwell  and 
John  watched  it  unceasingly,  the  latter 
growing  more  and  more  relieved  as  the 
bugeye  scudded  nearer  home  and  far- 
ther from  the  moving  marvel.  Strange 
to  relate,  over  the  bay,  usually  dotted 
with  small  or  large  vessels,  there  was  no 
steamer  or  sailing  craft  to  be  seen  up  to 
the  time  that  the  bunch  of  tall  palms  be- 
came a  speck  off  Annapolis  and  was 
finally  lost  in  the  south  horizon.  This 
evidently  suggested  a  line  of  action  to 
the  master  of  the  Tuckahoe. 

"John  Washington,"  he  said,  as  he 
mustered  his  crew  aft  and  addressed  it 
sternly,  "don't  you  ever  breathe  a  word 


AN  ISLAND  ON  A  JAMBOREE. 

about  that  floatin'  island  to  a  living  soul, 
or  I'll  skin  you  alive." 

"Golly,  Cap.  Jim,  you  knows  I  ain't." 

"Well,  you'd  better  not,  because  folks 
is  liable  to  think  we  made  a  round  of 
Pratt-street  saloons  afore  we  boarded 
the  Tuckahoe." 

"Dey  sutt'nly  '11  think  we's  liars,  Cap. 
Jim." 

"They  certainly  will,  John." 

For  a  week  Captain  Cromwell  scanned 
the  daily  papers  anxiously  for  news  of 
the  progress  of  the  queer  derelict.  And 
each  day,  with  equal  curiosity,  John 
Washington  visited  him  to  learn  what  he 
could. 

"Thought  as  how  it  mout  a  bumped 
up  down  Norfolk  way,"  said  the  crew. 

"No,  it  hasn't,"  replied  the  Captain. 
"I  guess  it  must  be  chasing  up  and  down 
the  ocean  now." 

"Golly,  Cap.  Jim,  but  dat  dere  was 
powerful  queer." 

"Are  you  sure,  John,  you've  never  told 
any  one — not  even  Liza?" 

"Go  'way,  Cap'n,  wha'  for  you  s'pose 
I'se  gwine  tell  de  old  woman?" 

But  he  had.  And  her  narrative,  as  cir- 
culated in  Eastern-Shore  cabins,  was  a 
vastly  more  moving  tale  than  the  sim- 
ple unvarnished  truth  as  you  and  I 
know  it. 


Alexander  the  Great 

Alexander  loved  everything  about 
Antoinette  except  her  too  pronounced 
fondness  for  the  romantic.  That  per- 
turbed him  greatly.  Nobody  liked  to  be 
sentimental  with  a  pretty  girl  more  than 
did  Alexander.  If  he  could  squeeze  An- 
toinette's hand  slyly  at  Ford's  or  the 
Academy  when  a  "dark  scene"  was  on, 
and  get  a  sweet  answering  pressure;  if 
he  engineered  his  arm  about  her  undis- 
turbed when  he  took  her  driving  on 
Druid  Hill's  unlighted  roads  of  a  sum- 
mer night;  if  he  hazarded  an  occasional 
kiss  on  her  warm,  cherry-red  lips  as 
they  lingered  in  the  parting  on  the  front 
steps  of  her  Harlem-avenue  home— he 
was  as  pleased  as  any  admiring  lover 
could  well  be.  And  the  next  day  in  that 
dull,  prosaic  German-street  office,  pic- 
tures of  Antoinette  as  she  laughed,  of 
Antoinette  as  she  lowered  her  clear 
brown  eyes  after  that  kiss,  would  thrust 
themselves  most  impertinently  into  each 
page  of  the  big  ledger  he  had  to  post. 

The  trouble,  however,  with  Antoinette 
from  Alexander's  viewpoint  was  that 
she  was  more  romantic  than  that.  It 
was  all  right  for  her  to  be  a  trusting 
little  dear  and  allow  him  the  occasional 
kiss  or  hug.  But  no  adorer  likes  to  be 
told  that  he  doesn't  come  up  to  the 
lady's  ideal,  and  that  was  what  Antoi- 
nette had  plainly  given  Alexander  to 
understand  in  those  moments  when, 


ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT. 

spurred  on  by  the  kiss  or  the  hug,  he 
had  sought  to  make  her  more  truly  his 
only  and  own.  "The  man  I  marry," 
vowed  the  darling  Antoinette,  "must  be 
a  hero.  You're  just  an  ordinary  fellow. 
You're  better  than  the  rest  I  know,  and 
I  like  you  awfully  much.  But  Alexander, 
dear,"  and  she  gave  a  little  twist  to  the 
top  button  of  his  coat,  "I  don't  love 
you,  because  you  have  never  shown 
yourself  capable  of  bold  deeds  or  brave 
actions.  I  am  woman  enough  to  wor- 
ship a  man  who  can  do  things  of  that 
kind.  The  age  of  chivalry  is  not  dead. 
There  are  heroes  in  this  world,  and 
though  I'm  awfully  fond  of  you,  Alex- 
ander, I'm  going  to  wait  until  I  meet 
my  ideal."  Then  Alexander  would  hie 
himself  to  his  Gilmor-street  home  and 
curse  his  luck.  What  could  a  plain,  un- 
assuming, workaday  clerk  do  in  the  way 
of  being  a  hero?  Where  did  he  have  op- 
portunities of  meeting  situations  of  peril 
in  which  he  could  prove  his  valor? 

One  of  those  evenings  when  Antoinette 
waxed  confidential  and  revealed  her  true 
thoughts— evenings  rare,  because,  as  a 
rule,  she  was  fencing  coquettishy  with 
tongue  and  eyes— she  acknowledged  that 
the  nearest  approach  to  her  ideal  that 
she  had  ever  seen  was  a  handsome,  lithe 
young  Atlantic  City  life  guard.  She  put 
such  a  valuation  upon  the  courage  of 
this  sun-bronzed,  red-shirted  Adonis  that 
Alexander's  jealousy  rose  to  the  fuming 
point.  There  pressed  upon  him  the  no- 
tion of  going  to  the  City-by-the-Sea, 
either  to  challenge  this  approximate 
ideal  to  mortal  combat  or  of  emulating 
his  choice  of  occupation  and  working  a 


ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT. 

lifeboat  and  a  rescue-line  himself.  Then 
he  reflected  that,  after  all,  he  would 
rather  be  a  live  clerk  in  Baltimore  than 
a  dead  hero  in  the  restless  ocean  surf. 

"It's  all  the  fault  of  those  blamed 
novels,"  muttered  Alexander,  in  his 
wrath.  "She  has  filled  up  her  head  with 
that  silly  trash  until  she  has  spoiled  the 
finest  girl  on  earth."  He  never  met  her 
on  Lexington  street  that  she  was  not  on 
her  way  to  or  from  the  Enoch  Pratt 
Library,  or,  was  carrying  home  the 
latest  bit  of  "fiction  from  the  bookstores. 
The  old  and  the  new  alike  fed  her  imag- 
ination—Scott, the  elder  Dumas,  the 
King  Arthur  romances,  Stanley  Wey- 
man,  Anthony  Hope,  Hallie  Erminie 
Rives,  Laura  Jean  Libbey,  Bertha  M. 
Clay,  Mrs.  Alexander— all  were  fish  for 
her  net,  tabloids  for  her  mental  diges- 
tion. "If  she  had  her  way,  she  would 
make  me  a  Rob  Roy,  a  Romeo,  a  Pris- 
oner of  Zenda,  a  Sir  Gal— or  whatever 
the  dickens  that  old  fellow's  name  was," 
vowed  Alexander,  who,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, was  not  strong  on  literature. 

For  three  hours  and  more  he  lay  awake 
on  his  bed  that  night.  He  knew  the 
length  of  time,  because  the  wind  was 
from  the  east  and  brought  the  sound  of 
the  City  Hall's  strike  to  him.  How  to 
gain  Antoinette  in  marriage,  how  to 
meet  her  fancy  of  what  a  man  ought  to 
be,  how  to  be  a  hero  without  an  un- 
timely fate  in  the  flower  of  his  youth- 
was  ever  lover  more  perplexed,  more 
worried! 

The  next  morning  brought  his  deliver- 
ance. It  came  to  him  as  he  held  himself 
in  place  on  two  inches  of  the  footboard 


ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT. 

of  a  crowded  open  car.  A  queer  spot 
for  salvation  to  be  handed  to  a  despair- 
ing lover!  Yet  salvation  is  accustomed 
to  odd  performances.  In  this  instance 
it  popped  into  Alexander's  mind  so  un- 
expectedly that  he  chuckled  and  made 
a  seated  individual  think  Alexander  was 
reading  the  jokes  of  his  penny  paper 
over  his  shoulder.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Alexander  was  soaring  into  a  new  and 
unexplored  world.  A  great  white  light 
was  leading  him  far  from  the  madding 
crowd. 

For  three  days  chuckling  alternated 
with  heavy  thinking.  His  mind  was  so 
engrossed  with  the  probability  of  his  de- 
liverance from  the  trials  and  anxieties 
of  trying  vainly  to  please  Antoinette 
that  when  he  went,  by  appointment,  to 
take  her  to  Electric  Park  to  see  the 
vaudeville  show  he  came  perilously  near 
telling  her  all  about  it.  And  that  to  the 
swain  who  hopes  to  capture  a  hesitating 
maiden  would,  as  every  masculine 
knows,  have  been  fatal.  As  it  was, 
Alexander's  countenance  was  so  benign 
and  cheerful  that  the  little  lady  no- 
ticed it. 

"You've  got  a  surprise  for  me,  I 
know,"  she  declared  as  she  eyed  him, 
pouting  most  charmingly. 

She  had  hit  so  near  the  truth  that 
Alexander,  helpless  masculine,  flounder- 
ed. "N— n— no.  I— I— I  haven't,"  he  vowed. 

"Yes,  you  have,  Alexander  Brother- 
ton,"  she  replied,  spiritedly;  and  at  mid- 
night as  they  were  crossing  Harlem 
square,  homeward  bound,  she  snuggled 
up  to  him  confidingly  and  intimated 
that  it  was  about  time  to  tell  her. 


ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT. 

Alexander  weakened.  When  a  fellow 
is  24  and  a  girl  is  22  and  unusually  pretty 
and  winsome,  his  heart  must  be  ada- 
mant to  withstand  that  little  trick  of 
snuggling  up.  Alexander  gasped,  but 
with  the  gasp  gained  sense  enough  to 
see  he  couldn't  tell  her  about  the  "great 
white  light." 

Antoinette,  girl  like,  was  miffed.  It 
was  the  first  time  in  her  experience 
with  Alexander,  and  in  fact  with  sev- 
eral other  adorers,  that  she  had  not  been 
able  to  operate  that  little  device  suc- 
cessfully. As  a  result,  she  was  rather 
cool  when  they  parted. 

The  next  evening  Alexander  went 
around  to  make  it  up.  He  had  to 
"crawl,"  of  course.  They  all  do.  The 
girls  make  them  do  it.  And  when  he 
had  apologized  earnestly  for  the  elev- 
enth time  and  vowed  with  a  double 
criss-cross  that  there  really  wasn't  any 
secret,  Antoinette  was  partially  molli- 
fied and  allowed  Alexander  to  stay  un- 
til past  11  o'clock  without  a  recurrence 
of  pouting  on  her  part. 

The  next  night  she  was  in  a  lovely 
humor  when  Alexander  came  around.  It 
was  close  and  hot,  and,  after  buying 
sondaes  at  the  drug  store  on  the  corner 
below,  Alexander  suggested  riding  out 
and  strolling  along  some  of  the  paths  of 
Druid  Hill  Park.  He  put  it  humbly,  but 
he  was  most  blithe  and  joyous  when  she 
consented. 

They  were  walking  up  the  Mall  on 
their  way  to  the  boat  lake  half  an  hour 
later.  It  was  dark  just  there,  and,  as  no 
one  seemed  to  be  near,  Alexander  let  his 
hand  steal  around  Antoinette's  little 


97 


ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT. 

waist. 

"You  shouldn't  do  that,"  said  An- 
toinette slipping  away  from  him,  but 
not  angrily.  "We're  not  engaged,  you 
know." 

"I'd  like  to  be,"  asserted  Alexander 
ardently. 

What  answer  she  would  have  made 
can  only  be  guessed  at,  for  just  at  this 
moment  two  muscular  fellows  sprang  in 
front  of  them  from  behind  a  tree.  In 
the  few  arc-light  rays  that  penetrated 
the  low-hanging  limbs  Antoinette  could 
see  that  both  were  masked  and  that 
one  held  a  pistol  at  her.  Antoinette 
backed  close  to  Alexander  and  screamed. 
It  was  a  good,  lusty  scream,  far  stronger 
than  Alexander  had  thought  her  capable 
of  emitting. 

"Hand  over  your  money  and  valu- 
ables," gruffly  said  the  companion  of 
him  who  held  the  pistol. 

Antoinette  could  feel  Alexander  double 
his  fists  and  his  muscles  grow  hard.  He 
started  toward  the  two  highwaymen. 
"Don't!  don't!"  she  cried,  as  she  threw 
her  arms  around  him.  "They'll  kill  you!" 

But  Alexander  heeded  her  not.  In- 
stead, he  pushed  her  aside  and  sprang 
determinedly  at  the  other  pair.  With 
his  left  hand  he  knocked  up  the  pistol 
and  caused  it  to  fall  to  the  ground.  With 
his  right  he  delivered  a  swinging  blow 
on  the  shoulder  that  staggered  the  other 
fellow.  Apparently  the  pair  had  not  ex- 
pected resistance,  for  they  darted  off  in 
the  shadows,  with  Alexander  in  stern 
pursuit. 

"Don't  leave  me  alone,"  called  An- 
toinette agonizingly.  Visions  of  dire 


ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT. 

peril  to  distressed  womanhood  leaped 
into  her  brain  from  a  score  of  favorite 
novels.  She  might  be  kidnapped  and 
confined  in  some  dark  tower — she  might 
be  shot  down  from  ambush— she  might— 
but,  ah,  now!  her  fears  were  dissipated, 
for  the  doughty  Alexander  was  back. 
He  was  puffing  most  unromantically, 
but  was  overjoyed  at  the  turn  that  en- 
abled him  to  show  himself  so  valiant. 

Several  strangers  had  been  attracted 
by  Antoinette's  scream.  Alexander  sat- 
isfied their  curiosity  by  a  modest  re- 
cital of  the  incident.  And  then  with 
the  adoring  Antoinette  holding  close  to 
him  he  turned  away.  One  of  the  strangers 
stopped  him. 

"You've  left  the  pistol,"  he  said. 

"By  George!  so  I  did,"  said  Alexander. 

"Don't  take  that  awful  thing,"  said 
Antoinette  with  a  shudder. 

"It  will  be  a  prize  trophy,"  said  Alex- 
ander, and  Antoinette  with  this  point  of 
view  was  content.  Under  the  first  light 
he  showed  the  weapon  to  her.  She 
needed  to  be  encouraged  to  handle  the 
pistol,  but  finally  she  inspected  it  close- 
ly. "It  has  your  initials— 'A.  B.'— on  it," 
she  suddenly  declared. 

"Why  so  it  has,"  stammered  Alexan- 
der. Without  further  ado  he  put  the  re- 
volver in  his  pocket. 

"Hadn't  you  better  tell  the  park  gate- 
man  about  the  outrage?"  asked  An- 
toinette presently. 

"No;  I  think  it  wiser  to  keep  it  out  of 
the  papers,"  returned  Alexander.  "After 
all,  it  was  only  a  little  incident,  with  no 
serious  consequences." 

But    Antoinette    did    not    regard   it    in 

90 


ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT. 

that  light.  To  her  it  was  a  valorous 
deed,  and  she  rehearsed  her  view  of  it 
all  the  way  home. 

"You  are  my  hero,  my  first  hero," 
she  said  to  the  proud  Alexander  on  her 
stoop,  and  reaching  up  to  his  face  she 
impulsively  gave  him  the  warmest  kiss 
he  had  ever  secured  from  her.  The  hero 
business  wasn't  so  bad  after  all. 

Some  evenings  later  they  were  again 
strolling  in  the  park.  Alexander  had 
received  permission  to  smoke  a  cigarette 
as  they  walked,  but  could  not  light  it 
in  the  breeze  that  was  blowing.  "Wait 
a  moment,  little  girl,"  he  finally  said, 
and  he  stepped  aside  to  the  protection 
of  a  broad  tree  trunk,  perhaps  forty  feet 
away,  leaving  Antoinette  on  the  path. 
It  was  the  main-traveled  way  from  Mad- 
ison-avenue gate  to  the  Mansion  House, 
but  at  the  time  no  one  was  near.  Sud- 
denly, however,  a  tall  man  loomed  up 
from  behind  Antoinette  and  seized  her 
rudely  in  his  arms. 

"A  kiss,  my  little  beauty,"  he  said 
as  he  put  his  face  close  to  hers.  An- 
toinette would  have  dropped  with  fright 
had  not  his  firm  grasp  upheld  her.  She 
was  too  scared  to  scream,  but  she  did 
have  presence  of  mind  enough  to  turn 
her  face  aside.  What  she  saw  when  she 
did  turn  overjoyed  her,  for  Alexander 
was  coming  agilely  over  the  turf  to 
her  rescue. 

"Here,  let  go  of  that  lady,  you  dirty 
whelp!"  cried  Alexander,  when  yet  some 
paces  away.  The  man  relaxed  his  hold 
on  her,  but,  instead  of  running  as  her 
hold-up  man  had  done,  he  turned  to 
meet  the  oncoming  champion.  Alex- 


100 


ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT. 

ander  grappled  with  him  and  there  was 
a  stout  tussle.  It  seemed  ages  to  An- 
toinette, who  was  watching  the  strug- 
gle with  tense,  strained  eyes,  before  Al- 
exander proved  his  redoubtability  by 
throwing  her  insulter  over  on  the  grass. 

"Oh,  Alexander!"  she  cried  in  exulta- 
tion and  relief.  "You  are  so  strong  and 
brave!" 

Alexander,  panting,  swelled  his  chest. 
Such  praise  from  the  girl  he  loved  was 
like  divine,  enchanting  wine.  He  took 
her  to  his  bosom,  as  they  say.  But  the 
fond  embrace  was  cut  short  by  a 
snicker  from  the  onlooker.  He  had  not 
risen  from  the  recumbent  position  in 
which  Alexander's  prowess  had  placed 
him.  Antoinette's  beloved  turned  an- 
grily on  him,  "Get  you  gone,  you  vile 
dog!"  he  exclaimed  theatrically.  And 
then  he  kicked  him,  not  gently,  but  posi- 
tively. 

In  a  flash  the  other  man  was  up  and 
had  grabbed  the  surprised  Alexander. 'It 
was  such  a  grab  that  Alexander  mur- 
mured in  pain.  Antoinette  thought  she 
heard  one  of  them  say  something  about 
"Not  in  the  bargain."  She  was  not  sure. 
But  she  was  sure  that  Alexander  was 
not  doing  so  well  in  the  second  round 
of  combat  as  in  the  first.  Then  he  whis- 
pered to  his  opponent,  and  almost  im- 
mediately the  strength  of  the  other 
diminished,  even  as  did  Samson's  when 
shorn  of  his  locks.  Presently  the  other 
broke  away  and  ran,  and  Alexander 
stood  breathless,  master  of  the  field. 

On  the  walk  back  to  the  Druid  Hill- 
avenue  entrance  to  take  a  car  for  home 
Antoinette  again  proposed  that  they  tell 


101 


ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT. 

the  authorities  of  the  two  attacks. 
Alexander  was  against  it.  He  said  he 
dreaded  the  mire  of  publicity  for  the 
sweetest  creature  on  earth.  And  he 
looked  at  her  lovingly  as  he  said  it. 
Antoinette's  purpose  weakened,  but  she 
had  enough  strength  of  will  left  to  de- 
clare she  was  almost  sure  she  could 
identify  her  assailant.  "He  had  an  odd- 
shaped  mole  on  his  right  cheek,"  she 
remarked.  "And,  do  you  know,  it's  cu- 
rioua  that  I  think  I  am  nearly  certain 
that  one  of  our  highwaymen  of  last 
week  had  a  similar  mark.  I  got  a 
glimpse  of  it  once  when  a  puff  of  air 
caught  his  mask."  Alexander  redoubled 
his  urgings  that  they  keep  silent.  He 
breathed  easier  when  they  were  past 
the  gateman  and  on  the  car. 

For  a  week  he  basked  in  the  glory 
of  her  adulation.  Never  was  a  hero  so 
worshiped  as  this  proven  one.  Never 
was  a  sweet  girl  so  happy  as  Antoi- 
nette. She  had  met  her  ideal,  and  he  was 
hers.  Twenty  hours  of  the  twenty-four 
she  dreamed  of  him;  the  other  four  she 
rejoiced  at  being  with  him. 

The  eighth  night  after  the  second  en- 
counter in  Druid  Hill  he  had  taken  her 
to  Gwynn  Oak  Park  to  dance.  Until  the 
sixth  number,  the  waltzes  and  two- 
steps  were  all  his.  Then  Will  Harrison, 
an  old  acquaintance,  came  up.  "I  hate 
to  leave  you,"  whispered  Antoinette,  as 
she  gazed  up  into  her  hero's  face,  "but 
Will  is  a  nice  boy,  and  I  don't  like  to 
refuse  him  one."  Alexander  smiled  in 
return,  and  told  her  to  enjoy  herself. 
As  she  floated  around  on  Will's  arm  she 
took  advantage  of  every  turn  to  watch 

102 


ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT. 

the  adored  Alexander.  She  thought  he 
looked  lonely,  and  she  wished  she  could 
decently  end  her  waltz  and  get  back  to 
him.  For  a  moment,  in  a  reverse  step, 
she  lost  sight  of  him,  and  when  she 
saw  him  again  a  tall  young  fellow  was 
talking  to  him.  Alexander  seemed  ill 
at  ease  and  perturbed.  In  fact,  he  quite 
failed  to  notice  that  she  was  nearing  him 
again  in  the  dance.  "I  want  that  extra 
five  you  whispered  you'd  give  me,"  An- 
toinette heard  the  tall  chap  say.  "That 
kick  was  worth  it.  If  you  don't  cough 
up  I'll  tell  the  lady  how  much  it  cost 
you,  you  coward,  to  be  a  hero  twice." 
Antoinette  looked  intently  at  the  tall 
man.  There  was  a  mole  on  his  right 
cheek.  She  was  wise  all  of  a  sudden. 
Then  she  grew  faint  with  the  shock  of 
the  knowledge. 

"Take  me  out  of  here,"  she  muttered 
to  her  partner.  He  obeyed.  A  car  was 
fast  filling  up  to  leave  for  Walbrook. 
Antoinette  made  a  dash  for  it.  "Come, 
take  me  home,  Will!"  she  called.  Again 
he  obeyed,  and  bounced  her  into  a  seat. 

"I'll  never  speak  to  that  awful  wretch 
again,"  said  Antoinette  to  the  curious 
Will.  "I  am  ashamed  of  myself." 

And  thus  was  Alexander  the  Great 
dethroned. 


103 


Breaking  Into  Medicine 

I. 

To  MR.  JOHN  IREDELL, 
Summerfleld, 

Guilford  County, 

North  Carolina. 

Baltimore,  Oct.  1,  1906. 
Dear  Father: 

I  have  been  here  nearly  a  week  now, 
and  have  got  pretty  well  fixed,  so  I 
thought  I  would  report  to  you  tonight. 
I  find  that  there  will  be  a  lot  of  hard 
work  with  classes,  laboratory  hours  and 
study,  but,  as  I  told  you  before  I  left,  I 
intend  to  put  my  shoulder  to  the  wheel 
and  aim  so  high  that  you  will  have  just 
cause  to  be  proud  of  me  when  I  become 
a  Doctor  of  Medicine.  I  see  that  I  shall 
have  to  cut  out  all  idea  of  amusements 
and  pleasure  and  put  my  nose  to  the 
grindstone. 

My  college— the  P.  &  S.— opened  last 
Thursday  with  an  address  by  the  Dean, 
a  helpful  speech  that  I  should  like  you 
to  have  heard.  For,  although  I  chose 
medicine  chiefly  because  Uncle  Will 
made  a  success  of  it  out  in  Texas,  I  was 
glad  to  hear  the  Dean  tell  what  a  noble 
profession  it  was  to  relieve  suffering 
millions. 

The  college  occupies  a  red  brick  build- 
ing at  Calvert  and  Saratoga  streets,  and 
is  operated  in  connection  with  the  City 
Hospital,  which  adjoins  it  and  where 
there  are  hundreds  of  patients.  I  don'i 


104 


BREAKING    INTO    MEDICINE. 

know  whether  you  remember  the  local- 
ity, as  it  has  been  so  many  years  since 
you  were  in  Baltimore.  It  is  close  to  the 
business  centre,  only  a  block  north  of 
the  Courthouse  and  the  Postoffice.  There 
are  about  300  students.  They  come  from 
all  parts  of  this  country,  and  even  from 
foreign  lands.  I  will  bear  in  mind  what 
you  said  about  not  being  too  thick  with 
any  of  them. 

I  have  secured  a  boarding-house  on 
North  Calvert  street— No.  641.  It  is  kept 
by  a  widow  lady  from  Mecklenburg 
county,  and  she  calls  it  the  Yadkin  and 
makes  a  special  effort  to  attract  "Tar- 
heels." Nearly  all  her  boarders  are 
from  North  Carolina,  and  we  get  the 
papers  from  Raleigh  and  other  places, 
so  that  it  is  quite  homelike  for  me. 

I  pay  $5  a  week  board,  and  there  ought 
not  to  be  many  extra  expenses,  except 
for  books,  so  I  can  get  along  nicely  on 
the  $35  a  month  you  said  you  would  give 
me.  But  I  told  them  at  the  College  to 
send  you  the  tuition  bill.  That  was  all 
right,  wasn't  it? 

Your  devoted  son, 

HUGH. 
II. 

To  MISS  GRACE  IREDELL, 
Summerfleld, 

North  Carolina. 

Baltimore,  Oct.  4,  1906. 
Dear  Little  Sis: 

I  wrote  Father  the  other  day  and  told 
how  I  had  got  started  at  the  Col- 
lege. I  suppose  you  read  the  letter  or 
heard  all  the  news  in  it.  I  really  haven't 
buckled  down  to  hard  work,  because 
there  has  been  such  a  lot  of  "hazing" 


BREAKING    INTO    MEDICINE. 

that  we  "freshies"  are  being  captured 
all  the  time.  Last  Friday  the  older  fel- 
lows actually  made  a  line  of  us  walk  up 
and  down  some  of  the  principal  streets 
with  our  trousers  and  coats  turned  in- 
side out,  our  stockings  down  over  our 
shoes,  our  bare  legs  tattooed  and  crazy 
signs  on  our  backs.  Just  fancy  what  a 
guy  your  big  brother  looked  on  Lexing- 
ton street,  where  all  the  ladies  here  go 
shopping!  I  should  have  died  if  I  had 
seen  anybody  from  home.  There  wasn't 
any  breaking  away,  because  they  were 
too  many  for  us.  One  "freshy"  tried  it, 
and  he's  going  around  with  a  bum  eye 
and  his  hand  in  a  sling. 

After  the  parade  they  took  us  in  a 
back  yard  and  made  us  do  "stunts."  One 
prisoner  had  to  deliver  a  solemn  oration 
from  a  beer  keg  on  "Whether  Cuba 
ought  to  be  annexed  to  the  United 
States."  When  it  came  my  turn  I  thought 
I'd  get  off  easy  by  giving  some  of  those 
imitations  of  dogs  and  cats  and  roosters 
that  I  used  to  get  off  with  the  crowd  at 
home.  But  they  made  such  a  hit  that 
now  they  have  me  doing  them  all  the 
time.  Every  time  I  come  out  of  class  a 
gang  of  yelling  Indians  grab  me  and 
carry  me  off  to  do  imitations.  I'm  tired 
of  it,  but  I  can't  help  it. 

Two  of  the  fellows  at  my  boarding- 
house  got  me  to  go  to  a  theatre  on  Balti- 
more street  last  night.  It  was  a  variety 
show,  a  mixed  programme  of  acrobatic 
feats,  singing  and  girls  dancing.  I 
thought  it  all  fine,  but  the  crowd  didn't 
like  every  bit  of  it,  for  at  places  they 
began  to  yell  "Get  the  hook!"  whatever 
that  means. 

106 


BREAKING    INTO    MEDICINE. 

I  intended  to  hunt  up  a  Methodist 
church  last  Sunday,  but  one  of  the  asso- 
ciate professors  at  the  college  was  a 
classmate  of  Uncle  Will's,  and  he  invited 
me  to  evening  service  at  a  Congrega- 
tional church,  a  beautiful  edifice  on 
Maryland  avenue,  looking  more  like  a 
costly  college  building  than  a  church.  I 
enjoyed  myself,  for  there  was  some  fine 
singing,  and  we  sat  right  behind  one  of 
the  prettiest  girls  I  have  ever  seen.  At 
the  end  I  was  introduced  to  some  of  the 
people  and  they  invited  me  to  a  social  at 
the  church  one  evening  next  week. 

Maybe  you  had  better  not  let  Father 
read  this.  He  might  get  the  idea  I  wasn't 
taking  my  studies  seriously  enough. 
Yours, 

HUGH. 
III. 

To  MR.  HUGH  IREDELL, 
641  North  Calvert  Street, 

Baltimore,   Maryland. 
Summerfield,  N.  C.,  Oct.  6,  1906. 
Dear  Son: 

I  am  glad  you  are  settled  in  Baltimore 
and  so  well  satisfied  with  your  choice  of 
a  dignified  and  honorable  profession.  I 
expect  to  see  you  buckle  right  down  to 
hard  work  and  study,  for  I  will  not  sup- 
port a  grown  son  in  idleness.  I  am  not 
so  well  pleased  at  what  your  mother 
tells  me  you  wrote  Grace,  that  you  went 
to  a  theatre  and  that  you  did  not  go  to 
a  Methodist  church  last  Sunday,  as  you 
promised.  You  remember  what  Pastor 
told  you  about  the  danger  to  young  men 
of  drifting  from  church  to  church  in  a 
large  city  like  Baltimore,  and  not  stick- 
ing to  any. 

107 


BREAKING    INTO    MEDICINE. 

I  got  the  bill  for  your  college  fees  to- 
day. I  was  surprised  that  you  did  this, 
for  you  told  me  when  I  agreed  to  let  you 
go  that  you  would  pay  everything  out  of 
$35  a  month.  I  will  send  a  money  order 
for  it  this  time,  but  you  must  settle  it 
yourself  next  term.  Your  father, 

JOHN  IREDELL. 
IV. 
To  MISS  GRACE  IREDELL, 

Summerfield,  N.  C. 

Baltimore,  Oct.  10,  1906. 
Dear  Little  Sis: 

What  in  the  world  made  you  blab 
about  what  I  wrote  you  last  week? 
Father  sends  me  a  roast  about  going  to 
a  theatre  and  not  going  to  a  Methodist 
church.  You  know  a  fellow  should  not 
be  expected  to  work  all  the  time,  but 
Father's  old-fashioned  and  can't  see  it 
that  way.  Don't  tell  him  anything  like 
that'  again. 

I  have  been  to  theatres  a  couple  more 
times.  You  know  it  doesn't  cost  much  if 
you  sit  with  the  "gods"  in  the  cheaper 
seats.  All  the  fellows  pay  Dutch  and  we 
have  a  jolly  time.  One  night  we  went 
into  a  lunchroom  on  Fayette  street  and 
enjoyed  fried  oysters.  Another  night  we 
went  to  a  German  place  downtown  and 
had  a  bottle  of  beer  and  a  cheese  sand- 
wich. It  was  lively  there;  such  a  nice 
lot  of  people. 

I  haven't  been  to  a  Methodist  church 
yet.  I  intended  to  go  Sunday  morning, 
but  I  was  out  late  Saturday  night  and  1 
didn't  get  up  in  time.  Sunday  night  I 
went  to  that  Associate  -Church  again.  1 
saw  my  pretty  girl— I  tell  you  she's  a 
beauty.  She  had  a  fellow  with  her.  Wish 


IDS 


BREAKING    INTO    MEDICINE. 

I  had  been  in  his  place.  Going  to  a  blow- 
out at  the  church  tomorrow  night.  May- 
be she'll  be  there.  Hope  so..  Yours, 

HUGH. 
V. 
To  MR.  CLARENCE  ROWAN, 

Raleigh,  N.  C. 
Baltimore,  Oct.  25,  1906. 
Dear  Old  Chum: 

Haven't  heard  a  word  since  I  wrote 
you  from  home  to  say  I  was  coming  to 
Baltimore  to  study  medicine,  but  sup- 
pose you're  too  busy  rushing  the  lady 
you're  going  to  marry.  Say,  old  man, 
I'm  clean  gone  myself.  Prettiest  girl  I 
ever  looked  at.  Saw  her  two  Sunday 
nights  in  church  when  I  first  came,  and 
then  was  lucky  enough  to  meet  her  at  a 
church  social.  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  her.  No,  I  don't,  because  if  you  had 
I  should  have  had  you  for  a  rival.  Any- 
way, she  looked  a  vision.  She's  tall, 
with  a  stunning  figure  and  a  graceful 
way  of  holding  herself.  She's  a  blonde, 
her  hair  glinted  with  gold,  her  eyes  as 
blue  as— I  was  going  to  say  indigo,  but 
nothing  about  her  is  as  blue  as  that.  I 
never  did  take  to  blondes,  you  know,  but 
this  one  has  got  me,  because  she  has  vi- 
vacity and  unbends  most  delightfully. 
I  talked  to  her  half  an  hour  the  night  I 
met  her.  Gee,  but  the  fellow  who  brought 
her  looked  sour!  I  must  have  made  some 
kind  of  an  impression,  for  when  she  was 
bidding  me  good-night  she  asked  me  to 
call.  She  lives  on  a  street  called  Gull- 
ford  avenue,  in  North  Baltimore.  I  was 
over  there  last  Tuesday  night.  Asked 
her  if  I  might  come  when  I  saw  her  at 


109 


BREAKING    INTO    MEDICINE. 

church  Sunday.  I  tell  you  she  was  a 
dream  in  a  pink  gown,  with  her  golden 
hair  all  done  up  on  her  head  in  some 
kind  of  a  way  I  can't  describe,  but  look- 
ing magnificent.  She  told  me  about  a 
fellow  who  wanted  to  come  see  her  that 
night,  but  she  let  him  know  she  had  an- 
other engagement,  and  the  way  she  told 
me,  looking  at  me  with  those  splendid 
blue  eyes,  just  made  me  feel  I  was  cut- 
ting some  ice  there.  She  can  tickle  the 
ivories  in  great  shape,  and  spent  most 
of  the  evening  at  the  piano.  She  goes  to 
the  theatre  a  lot,  and  she  had  all  the 
latest  comic  opera  songs,  like  those  of 
Anna  Held  and  Marie  Cahill,  and  she 
can  play  ragtime  out  of  sight.  I  tried  to 
get  her  to  play  some  sentimental  things, 
but  she  said  she  wasn't  in  that  mood. 
I'd  like  to  catch  her  when  she  is. 

Tomorrow  afternoon  I  expect  to  be  a 
great  occasion.  She  studies  painting  at 
the  Maryland  Institute,  an  art  school 
here,  and  she  has  asked  me  to  go  sketch- 
ing with  her  out  in  the  country.  I'll  have 
to  cut  some  of  my  college  work,  but  you 
can  bet  I'm  going  to  do  that  all  right. 
Yours,  HUGH. 

VI. 

To  MR.   CLARENCE   ROWAN, 
Raleigh,  N.  C. 

Baltimore,  Nov.  1,  1906. 
Dear  Old  Chum: 

Glad  to  hear  from  you  so  soon,  and 
glad  to  hear  you  are  interested  in  Miss 
Edith  Wolfe.  No,  I  don't  think  you'd 
better  come  to  Baltimore.  But,  if  you're 
good  and  stay  away,  I'll  send  you  a 
photo  of  her  she  has  promised  to  give 

110 


BREAKING    INTO    MEDICINE. 

me  and  let  you  see  what  she  looks  like. 
No  picture  of  her  can  do  her  justice, 
however,  for  she's  just  the  liveliest  girl 
you  ever  knew,  beside  being  so  hand- 
some. 

I've  been  up  to  her  home  twice  in  a 
week,  took  her  to  the  theatre  last  night 
and  went  to  church  with  her  Sunday. 
But  the  bulliest  time  of  all  was  that 
sketching  trip  last  Friday,  of  which  I 
wrote  you.  It  was  a  magnificent  October 
afternoon,  and  the  country  was  simply 
superb,  with  the  trees  all  tinted  to  glor- 
ious hues  by  a  frost  two  weeks  ago.  I 
carried  her  little  easel  and  canvas  stool, 
and  we  got  in  a  car  near  her  home  and 
rode  out  to  a  suburb  called  Mount  Holly. 
I  had  no  idea  there  was  such  beautiful 
scenery  near  Baltimore,  so  bold  and 
mountainous  looking.  We  strolled  first 
along  a  path  beside  a  millrace,  high  up 
on  a  hillside,  a  path  overhung  by  arch- 
ing trees,  with  Gwynn's  Falls  tumbling 
over  the  rocks  in  cascades  far  beneath, 
and  a  beautiful  outlook  across  the  val- 
ley to  some  handsome  wooded  country 
estates.  After  that  we  went  down  be- 
side the  stream  and  sat  under  a  great 
rock,  while  Miss  Wolfe  made  a  sketch  of 
the  Falls.  It  didn't  take  her  long— just 
a  rough  painted  outline,  you  know.  She's 
going  to  fill  it  in  at  home,  and  she  has 
promised  me  a  copy  for  my  room.  She 
was  in  the  jolliest  mood  imanginable,  and 
we  had  a  merry  hour  there  "far  from  the 
madding  crowd."  I  shall  always  call  It 
a  "red  day,"  because  then  I  got  my  first 
kiss  from  her.  It  came  about  in  this 
way.  She  dropped  her  paint  brush  while 
we  were  sitting  on  a  rock  at  the  water's 


ill 


BREAKING    INTO    MEDICINE. 

edge,  and  it  floated  down  stream.  She 
said  she  wouldn't  lose  it  for  worlds. 
"Will  you  reward  me  if  I  recover  it?"  I 
asked.  She  said  she  would.  "A  kiss?" 
I  asked.  "Oh!  stop  your  nonsense,  you 
foolish  boy!"  she  said,  with  a  laugh.  I 
ran  down  the  bank,  clambered  out  on 
some  rocks,  steered  the  brush  in  with  a 
stick  and  took  it  to  her.  Then  we 
wrangled  for  ten  minutes  gaily  about 
whether  she  had  or  had  not  promised  me 
that  kiss.  Suddenly  she  leaned  forward 
and  met  my  lips  with  hers.  "There,  let 
that  end  it,"  she  cried,  as  she  blushed. 
It  didn't  end  it,  for  it  was  so  good  I 
wanted  more  out  of  the  same  package. 
But  she  wouldn't  let  me  have  any  more. 
Aren't  girls  mean?  I  suppose  I'll  have 
to  make  more  bargains  with  her  or  I'll 
get  no  more  kisses.  She  says  she  al- 
ways sticks  to  a  bargain. 

You  have  no  idea  how  clever  she  is  in 
dodging  if  I  try  to  steer  the  talk  to  sen- 
timental ground.  I  have  called  her  an 
arrant  flirt  a  score  of  times,  but  she  just 
laughs.  And  such  a  laugh! 

The  show  last  night  hit  me  $3.20,  count- 
ing car  fares,  and  my  allowance  from 
the  old  man  is  running  short.  I'm  glad 
she  didn't  accept  my  invitation  to  go  to 
the  Rennert  to  eat  after  "The  Lion  and 
the  Mouse."  She  said  she  would  like  to, 
but  we'd  better  go  straight  home  from 
Ford's,  as  her  mother  would  prefer  it 
that  way. 

Wish  me  success,  old  fellow,  with  my 
love  affair.  I  tell  you,  that  girl  has  got 
me  going  so  I  can't  get  interested  in 
dry  old  stuff  about  bones.  Yours, 

HUGH. 


112 


BREAKING    INTO    MEDICINE. 

VII. 

To  MISS  GRACE  IREDELL, 

Summerfield,  N.  C. 
Baltimore,  Nov.  21,  1906. 
Dear  Little  Sis: 

I  wish  you  had  been  with  me  last 
night  to  see  the  largest  dance  you  ever 
set  your  eyes  on.  It  was  a  regimental 
hop  at  the  Fifth  Regiment  Armory,  an 
enormous  big  building  that  can  accom- 
modate, they  say,  about  15,000  people. 
They  hold  there  all  the  biggest  con- 
ventions that  Baltimore  has.  It  was  a 
grand  sight,  with  a  crowd  of  girls  in 
pretty  clothes  and  fellows  in  uniform 
and  dress  suits,  dancing  to  the  music  of 
the  regiment  band.  Edith  Wolfe's 
brother  is  a  lieutenant  in  the  regiment, 
and  she  invited  me  to  be  her  escort.  We 
had  our  own  party— Lieutenant  Wolfe, 
another  soldier  boy,  a  third  chap  not  in 
uniform  and  a  couple  of  girl  friends  of 
Edith,  petite,  pretty,  sweet-natured  sis- 
ters, whom  I  liked  very  much.  I  danced 
with  all  three  girls,  but  especially  with 
Edith,  who  looked  radiant  in  a  black  se- 
quin gown  that  was  unusually  well  suited 
to  her  blonde  type.  One  waltz  to  the 
dreamy  music  of  "Mile.  Modiste"  was 
Heaven  itself. 

The  only  drawback  to  me  was  the  ex- 
pense. I  had  to  pay  $4  for  a  carriage  and 
$3  for  roses.  Besides,  I  had  to  hire  a 
dress  suit,  as  I  could  not  have  gone 
without  one.  Some  of  the  students  sent 
me  to  a  place  kept  by  twin  brothers, 
identical  in  appearance,  and  it  was  a 
funny  sight  to  see  them  making  me 
into  one  of  their  swallow-tails,  taking 


113 


BREAKING    INTO    MEDICINE. 

in  here  and  letting  out  there.  Anyhow, 

it  took  the  last  dollar  I  had,  and  I've  got 

to  borrow  to  get  along  for  two  weeks. 

Yours  lovingly, 

HUGH. 
VIII. 

To  MR.  HUGH  IREDBLL, 
College  of  Physicians  and  Surgeons. 
Baltimore,  Nov.  27,  1906. 
Dear  Sir: 

The  faculty  desires  to  notify  you  that 
your  record  is  unsatisfactory,  both  in 
regard  to  attendance  and  preparedness 
in  class,  and  it  expects  you  to  show  im- 
provement therein  or  suffer  the  conse- 
quences. 

Respectfully  yours, 

W.  TALBERT, 

Secretary. 
IX. 
To  MRS.  JOHN  IREDELL, 

Summerfleld,  N.  C. 

Baltimore,  Dec.  2,  1906. 
Dear  Mother: 

I  want  you  to  do  me  a  great  favor.  I 
do  not  dare  write  Father  about  it,  but  I 
find  I  must  have  a  black  dress  suit  in 
order  to  look  as  well  as  the  other  fel- 
lows when  I  go  around  of  an  evening. 
It  will  cost  $40,  I  learn,  and,  of  course,  I 
cannot  pay  for  it  out  of  the  small 
monthly  sum  Father  sends  me  for  my 
board.  Tell  him  it  is  ABSOLUTELY 
NECESSARY  and  urge  him  please  to 
let  me  have  it.  If  he  will  not  send  the 
money,  I  shall  have  to  borrow  it  or  get 
the  suit  somewhere  on  the  instalment 
plan.  Your  devoted  son, 

HUGH. 

114 


BREAKING    INTO    MEDICINE. 

X. 

To  MR.  HUGH  IREDELL, 

641  North  Calvert  street, 

Baltimore. 

Summerfleld,  N.  C.,  Dec.  6,  1906. 
My  Son: 

What  is  this  nonsense  about  you  must 
have  a  black  swallow-tail?  You  had  a 
black  suit  when  you  went  away.  It  was 
good  enough  to  go  to  parties  here.  Are 
your  Baltimore  friends  so  much  more 
aristocratic?  Besides,  didn't  you  go  there 
to  study  and  not  to  play?  You  are 
writing  home  too  much  about  girls  and 
society  and  dances  and  theatres,  and 
nothing  about  work.  Remember,  I  am 
footing  the  bills.  When  I  was  your  age 
I  got  up  at  4  in  the  morning  and  toiled 
away  in  the  fields  till  sundown,  and  then 
I  was  too  tired  to  spruce  up  and  play 
at  being  a  gentleman.  If  you're  going 
to  be  a  doctor,  you'd  better  take  a  dif- 
ferent course. 

Yours, 

FATHER. 
XI. 

To  MR.  CLARENCE  ROWAN, 
Raleigh, 

N.  C. 

Baltimore,  Dec.  10,  1906. 
Dear  Old  Chum: 

You're  right  for  complaining  I  have 
neglected  you,  but  I  have  been  having 
the  time  of  my  life.  Edith  and  I  have 
been  going  it  heavy  for  nearly  two 
months.  I  am  hit  harder  than  ever. 
She's  a  wonderful  girl.  I  manage  to  see 
her  every  day— meet  her  down  on  Lex- 
ington street  shopping,  take  long  walks 


115 


BREAKING    INTO    MEDICINE. 

with  her  out  Charles-Street  extended,  go 
to  church  with  her,  take  her  to  the 
theatre  and  elsewhere  at  night.  She  has 
invited  me  into  a  euchre  that  meets 
every  three  weeks — fine  crowd.  You 
ought  to  see  me  in  a  swell  dress  suit. 
Went  broke  to  get  it,  but  it's  worth  it 
for  style.  You  wouldn't  know  me  for  a 
country  "Tarheel." 

Edith's  as  cute  as  they  make  them. 
Last  night,  at  the  euchre,  she  found  a 
double  almond,  and  we  ate  filopena  for 
a  box  of  candy  against  a  kiss.  I  got 
caught,  of  course,  but  she  gave  me  the 
kiss  on  her  doorstep  as  we  parted.  Then 
she  dropped  a  hint  that  it  was  for  a  five- 
pound  box.  Just  think  of  that!  You  re- 
member that  line  out  of  "A  Texas  Steer," 
"I  wonder  if  it  cost  Daniel  Webster  a 
hundred  to  kiss  her  mother." 

Bye  bye,  old  chap;  got  a  date  to  bowl 
with  Edith  at  the  Garage  tonight. 
Ought  to  be  studying  for  "exams,"  but 
simply  can't. 

Yours, 

HUGH. 
XII. 
To  MR.  JOHN  IREDELL, 

Summerfield,  N.  C. 
Baltimore,  Dec.  20,  1906. 
Dear  Sir: 

I  am  requested  by  the  faculty  of  the 
College  of  Physicians  and  Surgeons  to 
say  that  the  record  of  your  son  is  so 
poor  that  he  cannot  be  permitted  to  con- 
tinue his  studies  here.  He  has  more 
than  50  absences  charged  against  him, 
continued  unpreparedness  in  classes  and 
a  wretched  showing  in  the  recent  exami- 


116 


BREAKING    INTO    MEDICINE. 

nations.  Respectfully  yours, 

C.  F.  B.  EVAN, 

Dean. 
XIII. 

(Telegram.) 
To  HUGH  IREDELL, 

641  N.  Calvert  St.,  Baltimore. 
Summerfleld,  N.  C.,  Dec.  21,  1906. 
Come  home  at  once.    Letter  from  fac- 
ulty. 

FATHER. 
XIV. 

(Telegram.) 
To  JOHN  IREDELL, 

Summerfleld,   N.   C. 
Baltimore,  Dec.  21,  1906. 
Wire    me    $75    first.    Owe    that    much 
board,  etc.  HUGH. 

XV. 

(Telegram.) 
To  HUGH  IREDELL, 

641  N.  Calvert  Street.  Baltimore. 

Summerfield,  N.  C.,  Dec.  21,  1906. 
Sell  dress  suit  and  pawn  watch.    Wait 
till  I  see  you.  FATHER. 

XVI. 

(Special  Delivery.) 
To  MISS  EDITH  WOLFE, 

1746  Guilford  Ave.,  Baltimore. 
Pennsy  Depot, 
Washington,  Dec.  22,  1906. 
Dearest  Girl: 

Sorry  I  can't  see  you  tonight.  Called 
home  suddenly  by  my  father.  Don't 
know  why.  Will  write  long  letter  when 
I  get  home.  Hope  to  be  back  soon.  Until 
then  fond  love  and  kisses,  from 
Your  Own, 

HUGH. 


117 


BREAKING   INTO    MEDICINE. 

XVII. 

(Special  Delivery.) 
To  MRS.  CLARA  YANCY, 

The  Yadkin,   Baltimore. 

Washington,  Dec.  22,  1906. 
Dear  Madam: 

I  regret  very  much  leaving  you  so 
abruptly  today.  I  will  send  you  money 
for  the  board  owing  as  soon  as  I  can. 
Until  then  will  you  please  take  good  care 
of  my  trunk.  Respectfully, 

HUGH    IREDELL. 


The  Pink  Ghost  of  Franklin  Square 

The  Ghost  appeared  very  modestly  at 
first.  Some  children  sitting  on  a  bench 
just  before  dark  saw  it  in  the  second- 
story  window  of  one  of  those  big  old 
brownstone  fronts  on  Fayette  street,  on 
the  south  side  of  Franklin  Square.  It 
seemed  so  uncanny  and  weird  to  them 
that  they  talked  a  lot  about  it  when  they 
went  that  evening  to  their  homes  on 
South  Strieker  street.  The  parents  pooh- 
poohed  it,  of  course,  and  told  the  chil- 
dren there  was  no  cause  for  alarm.  But 
when  one  of  the  little  girls,  after  a  rest- 
less, troubled  effort  to  get  to  sleep,  had 
had  a  strenuous  nightmare,  and  had 
alarmed  the  household  by  shrieking  that 
the  woman  in  pink  was  beckoning,  the 
older  folk  decided  to  investigate. 
.  The  next  night  there  was  no  ghost. 
Two  fathers  sat  with  the  children  in  the 
Square  from  supper  time  until  after  9 
o'clock,  but  nothing  happened.  Naturally, 
the  fathers  thought  it  a  pure  case  of 
nerves.  But  the  children  were  so  insist- 
ent and  so  circumstantial  in  their  story 
that  the  older  heads  wavered  and  re- 
turned on  the  following  evening. 

And  then  they  saw  the  Ghost! 

Just  after  the  June  sun  had  left  the 
trees  and  a  few  dying  gleams  were  col- 
oring the  tops  of  the  tall  houses  on 
Carey  street,  on  the  east  side  of  the 
Square,  the  Ghost  showed  itself  at  the 


119 


THE  PINK  GHOST  OF  FRANKLIN  SQUARE. 

window  the  children  had  pointed  out. 
It  was  a  figure  nebulous  and  hazy,  but 
undeniably  pink.  It  appeared  right  at 
the  window,  and  after  standing  still  for 
a  moment  began  to  wave  its  long  arms 
with  fantastic  gestures,  and  to  make 
other  movements  which  the  children  in- 
terpreted as  beckoning  to  them.  Then  it 
evaporated,  but  in  another  moment  re- 
appeared and  went  through  more  gyra- 
tions. 

The  exclamations  of  the  children  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  others  in  the 
Square,  and  soon  a  score  of  people  stood 
fascinated  and  puzzled  by  the  weird 
vision.  It  lasted  perhaps  five  minutes 
more,  quite  up  to  when  darkness  settled 
down  on  the  Square,  and  none  was  able 
to  explain  or  give  any  reasonable  solu- 
tion of  what  all  had  undeniably  seen. 
They  continued  to  watch,  and  continued 
to  discuss,  but  the  vanished  Ghost  came 
no  more  that  evening. 

The  next  night,  the  news  having 
spread,  there  were  a  hundred  persons  or 
more  in  the  southeast  part  of  the  Square. 
The  Ghost  came  on  time  and  went 
through  the  same  antics.  The  wonder- 
ment and  the  mystery  grew.  And  still 
none  could  explain,  though  a  resident 
of  the  block  stated  that  the  house  under 
watch  was  temporarily  without  occu- 
pants, as  the  family  who  dwelt  in  it  had 
been  gone  to  Europe  for  some  weeks. 

It  was  four  days  after  this  before  the 
police  heard  of  it.  By  that  time,  with 
the  exception  of  the  "cops,"  it  seemed 
as  though  everybody  in  Southwest  Bal- 
timore was  discussing  the  Ghost.  A  re- 


THE  PINK  GHOST  OF  FRANKLIN  SQUARE. 

porter  worked  up  a  lively  tale  about  it 
for  an  afternoon  paper,  and  Round  Ser- 
geant Norman,  as  he  left  the  station- 
house  that  evening,  was  instructed  to 
"lay  the  Ghost."  You  know  the  police 
don't  believe  in  the  supernatural.  Too 
often  etherealized  ghosts  turn  out  to  be 
most  mundane  burglars  and  house- 
breakers. 

The  Sergeant  found  a  thousand  eager 
watchers  in  the  Square  when  he  arrived. 
The  afternoon  paper  had  evidently  been 
digested  well.  Each  watcher  was  strain- 
ing his  eyes  at  the  brownstone  mansion 
on  Fayette  street.  From  the  windows  of 
several  Carey-street  houses  curious  per- 
sons leaned  out,  and  even  on  the  west, 
at  the  Franklin-Square  Hospital,  there 
were  other  interested  observers. 

"It's  either  a  'fake'  or  a  burglar,"  de- 
clared the  Sergeant  positively,  as  he  took 
the  "cub"  reporter  to  task  for  making 
such  capital  out  of  the  Ghost.  He  was 
just  about  to  narrate  some  of  his  own 
experiences  with  bogus  spooks  when  the 
Pink  Ghost  became  visible,  and  the  Ser- 
geant started  and  uttered  a  surprised  ex- 
clamation. A  thousand  other  pairs  of 
eyes  had  seen  it,  and  a  thousand  throats 
called  out,  in  varied  strength  of  sound: 

"There  it  is!    There  it  is!" 

A  hush  fell  over  the  crowd  as  they 
watched  the  figure  in  pink.  The  deepen- 
ing shadows  toned  the  dark-brown  front 
of  the  mansion  until  it  framed  the  out- 
lines in  the  window  with  considerable 
positiveness.  But  the  uncanny  nature  of 
the  appearance  was  also  in  evidence,  for 
one  could  see  right  through  the  figure  in 
pink  to  the  room  behind  it.  Those  near 


121 


THE  PINK  GHOST  OF  FRANKLIN  SQUARE. 

the  Round  Sergeant  saw  him  remove  his 
helmet  and  mop  the  increasing  perspira- 
tion from  his  forehead. 

"That  beats  the  devil,"  he  muttered. 

The  Ghost  began  to  wave  its  arms,  to 
bend  over  and  then  straighten  up;  to 
beckon  and  then  to  make  gestures  as  if 
of  denial.  The  Sergeant's  awe  was  great, 
but  no  whit  more  intense  than  that  of 
the  crowd.  They  were  face  to  face  with 
a  bit  of  the  supernatural,  puzzled,  won- 
dering, doubting,  scoffing,  fascinated, 
alarmed. 

"By  Jiminy!"  exclaimed  the  Sergeant. 
"That's  the  strangest  thing  I've  ever 
seen,  Howard.  We'll  have  to  go  into  that 
house." 

But  their  visit  that  night  was  destined 
to  be  futile.  Some  minutes  were  lost  in 
gaining  access  to  the  rear  roof  through 
the  house  next  on  the  west,  and  some 
minutes  more  in  prying  open  a  shutter 
and  forcing  a  carefully  locked  sash.  By 
this  time  the  twilight  had  deepened  into 
night,  and  the  Sergeant  lit  a  borrowed 
lantern  to  make  the  trip  down  the  stair- 
way to  the  second-story  front.  There 
was  nothing  strange  or  supernatural  in 
the  room;  no  sign  of  a  pink  ghost  or  any 
other  being,  human  or  spiritual.  The  fur- 
niture and  other  fittings  seemed  undis- 
turbed and  as  regularly  arranged  as 
they  had  probably  been  when  the  owners 
went  away.  And  when  Howard,  the  re- 
porter, raised  a  window,  a  hundred 
watchers  in  the  street  and  Square  were 
ready  to  vouchsafe  the  information  that 
the  Ghost  had  been  gone  quite  ten  min- 
utes. 


THE  PINK  GHOST  OF  FRANKLIN  SQUARE. 

The  Sergeant  swore.  Then  he  mut- 
tered: "It  certainly  is  queer."  Then  he 
took  Howard  on  a  thorough  inspection  of 
the  house,  from  cellar  to  roof.  They 
poked  into  cupboards,  turned  over  mat- 
tresses, peeped  into  bureau  drawers  and 
boxes  and  a  score  of  other  articles  too 
small  to  have  hidden  anything  human. 
But  nary  a  sign  was  there  of  ghost, 
burglar  or  joker.  "It  ^eats  the  devil," 
again  remarked  the  Sergeant  as  he  and 
Howard,  perspiringly  hot,  left  the  house 
about  9  o'clock. 

The  following  morning  the  papers  were 
full  of  it.  Southwest  Baltimore  no  longer 
mortgaged  the  new  sensation.  All  Bal- 
timore discussed  it  and  speculated  what 
it  might  be.  And,  as  a  result,  the  crowd 
of  watchers  as  the  June  day  drew  to  a 
close  numbered  not  one,  but  many,  thou- 
sands. Around  at  the  Concord  Club  they 
said  it  beat  any  political  mass-meeting 
ever  seen.  The  Square  was  overrun,  and 
everybody  talked  "Pink  Ghost."  Captain 
Delany  ordered  out  the  police  reserves 
to  keep  the  crowd  in  check  and  give  the 
cars  a  chance  to  get  by.  With  Round 
Sergeant  Norman,  the  Captain  person- 
ally superintended  the  preparations  to 
lay  the  ghost. 

The  Pink  Ghost  did  not  disappoint 
them.  It  came  to  the  window  on  sched- 
uled time — just  as  the  shadows  deepened 
in  Franklin  Square— and  it  waved  its 
arms  from  the  window  and  beckoned  to 
the  awed  and  puzzled  multitude.  Cap- 
tain Delany  gave  a  signal,  and  from 
front  and  rear  his  picked  men  swarmed 
into  the  empty  house  and  rushed  up  the 
stairway.  The  Round  Sergeant  was  in 


123 


THE  PINK  GHOST  OF  FRANKLIN  SQUARE. 

the  van.  He  had  been  berated  and  ridi- 
culed for  not  solving  the  mystery  the 
night  before,  and  he  determined  to  be  in 
at  the  death  now.  But  as  he  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  front  room  he  started 
back  in  amazement  and  fell  against  the 
bluecoat  behind  him.  The  Pink  Ghost 
was  not  in  the  window,  but  swaying  and 
frantically  waving  on  the  west  wall  of 
the  room. 

"My  God!  what  is  it?"  cried  the  man 
behind. 

Norman  could  only  point  to  the  wall. 
His  own  hair  was,  he  felt,  actually  rais- 
ing his  helmet  off  his  head,  and  there 
was  a  curious  contraction  in  his  throat. 
In  an  instant,  however,  this  had  passed, 
and,  with  club  in  hand,  he  charged  brave- 
ly upon  the  Ghost.  As  he  neared  it, 
however,  a  surprise  awaited  him.  Instead 
of  waving  arms,  he  saw  his  own  burly 
form  shadowed  on  the  outer  edge  of  the 
pink  nebula.  He  turned  upon  his  heel, 
quickly  bent  over,  and  then  burst  into 
loud  laughter.  For  him  the  riddle  of  the 
Pink  Ghost  was  solved. 

"What  is  it,  Norman?  What  is  it,  man? 
Is  he  crazy?" 

The  other  policemen  pushed  into  the 
room  to  be  enlightened,  but  the  Sergeant 
only  laughed  the  more  immoderately. 
Delany  became  angry  and  started  to 
seize  Norman  by  the  shoulder.  This 
brought  the  Captain  into  the  pink  nebula 
and  he  understood  Norman's  hilarity. 

"By  gad,  that's  funny,"  he  cried,  and 
he  entered  upon  a  joint  spasm  of  mirth. 
The  other  bluecoats  drew  near,  and  as 
each  came  into  the  pink  glow  the  chorus 
swelled.  Such  a  lot  of  uproarious  police- 


124 


THE  PINK  GHOST  OP  FRANKLIN  SQUARE. 

men   had   rarely   been   known   in   Balti- 
more. 

Five  minutes  later  Captain  Delany 
and  Sergeant  Norman,  having  at  last 
controlled  themselves,  left  the  closing  of 
the  house  to  subordinates  and  crossed 
the  square  to  a  house  on  Carey  street, 
where  they  asked  to  see  a  young  lady 
abiding  there.  She  was  a  very  stately 
and  fine-looking  young  woman,  and 
when  she  tripped  down  into  the  parlor 
the  attractiveness  of  her  face  was 
heightened  by  a  slight  flush,  due  most 
likely  to  her  wonderment  at  a  visit 
from  two  policemen.  When  they  left  her 
ten  minutes  later  her  face  was  rosy  red 
and  her  stately  carriage  had  given  way 
to  a  combination  of  mirth  and  embar- 
rassment. But  Delany  had  her  positive 
assurance  that  there  would  be  no  more 
Pink  Ghost. 

"For,  you  see,  it  was  this  way,"  he 
explained  to  the  reporters  who  stopped 
him  outside.  "The  young  woman  seems 
to  have  a  steady  beau  every  evening, 
for  whom  she  likes  to  do  a  bit  of  fixin' 
up  and  primping.  And  after  supper  she 
makes  her  way  to  her  room,  which  is  in 
the  front  of  the  top  floor,  and  there 
she  combs  and  rearranges  her  hair  and 
puts  on  gew-gaws  and  trimmings.  And 
in  these  long  summer  days,  when  the 
sun  has  left  the  square,  it  is  still  comin' 
into  those  high  windows." 

"But  what  has  she  to  do  with  the 
Ghost?"  asked  one  irrepressible. 

"I  was  a-comin'  to  that,  youngster," 
retorted  the  man  in  blue;  "but  if  ye're 
overanxious,  it  may  satisfy  yer  to  know 


125 


THE  PINK  GHOST  OF  FRANKLIN  SQUARE. 

she  was  the  Pink  Ghost.  Leastwise,  the 
sun's  reflection  was  the  ghost  and  she 
was  the  movin'  figure  that  made  the 
shadow  do  such  queer  antics.  She  had  a 
bureau  in  the  back  of  her  room  so  fixed 
that  when  the  rays  of  the  dying  sun 
come  into  the  window  on  the  north  they 
are  reflected  in  the  bureau  glass  and 
pass  out  of  the  south  window  and  across 
the  square  to  that  there  brownstone 
front  where  you  all  saw  the  Ghost. 
Every  time  she  raised  her  arms  to  her 
hair  or  made  any  other  movement  in 
dressing  before  the  mirror  she  butt  into 
the  reflection  and  caused  your  Pink 
Ghost  to  do  stunts." 

"And  you  say  there  won't  be  any 
more  Pink  Ghost?" 

"Not  unless  the  young  woman  gets 
careless  and  leaves  up  that  south  blind. 
For  she  sort  o'  has  an  idea  tonight  that 
the  whole  of  this  end  of  town  has  been 
watching  her  get  ready  to  meet  her 
beau." 


The  Vanished  Mammy 

In  the  detective  headquarters  in  the 
Courthouse  they  have  mistakenly  built 
up  a  very  high  notion  of  my  sleuth  qual- 
ities. Personally  I  have  always  felt  that 
such  help  as  I  have  been  able  to  render 
them  in  two  or  three  different  cases  was 
most  largely  due  to  luck,  and  only  in  a 
small  degree  to  the  exercise  of  logic  and 
common  sense  in  making  deductions  of 
subsequently  proven  importance  from 
apparently  trivial  facts.  Nevertheless, 
the  good  fortune  that  attended  me  in 
those  cases  fixed  my  reputation  with 
them  as  the  Sherlock  Holmes  of  Balti- 
more, while  the  generosity  with  which  I 
permitted  them  to  take  all  the  glory  of 
solving  the  mysteries  made  me  solid  and 
caused  them  to  consult  me  the  more  fre- 
quently in  hours  of  perplexity.  At  the 
same  time,  I  confess  it,  the  love  of  the 
game  made  me  eager  to  be  in  it  and  I 
not  only  installed  a  'phone  in  my  apart- 
ment in  the  Arundel,  but  I  was  always 
careful,  in  absenting  myself  from  my 
office  or  my  flat,  to  leave  word  where  I 
would  most  likely  be  found  during  the 
next  few  hours.  In  this  way  the  puzzled 
Vidocqs  were  usually  able  to  reach  me 
when  my  help  was  needed. 

I  was  whiling  away  a  rainy  Saturday 
afternoon  at  the  Maryland  a  few  weeks 
ago  when  I  saw  Borland  making  signs 
to  me  from  the  passageway  behind  the 
boxes  on  the  right  of  the  theatre.  Lieu- 


127 


THE    VANISHED    MUMMY. 

tenant  Amers'  redcoated  British  band, 
of  which  I  had  grown  very  fond,  was 
rendering  the  final  crashing  bars  of  the 
overture  to  "Wilhelm  Tell,"  and,  with  my 
passionate  love  for  music,  I  was  loth  to 
leave  until  the  programme  was  com- 
pleted. But  Borland  was  a  detective  who 
never  came  for  me  unless  there  was  an 
interesting  mystery  to  offer  and  I  left 
my  seat  at  once  and  joined  him  in  the 
lobby. 

"Which  way,  Borland?"  I  asked. 

"Woman's  College,  sir,"  he  answered, 
just  as  briefly. 

I  gave  an  exclamation  of  surprise.  An 
institution  attended  by  hundreds  of  girls 
from  the  best  families  of  America  was 
not  the  place  one  would  expect  a  mys- 
tery of  crime. 

"Very  curious  case,  sir.  Mummy  of  an 
Egyptian  princess  stolen." 

"Odd  affair,"  I  remarked.  "Gives  prom- 
ise of  being  most  unusual.  Any  clue?" 

"Not  a  shred,  sir." 

On  our  way  out  to  the  College  on  a 
Roland-Park  car,  Borland  gave  me  a 
recital  of  such  facts  as  he  had  learned. 
The  mummy  had  been  secured  in  Egypt 
with  much  difficulty  by  President  Gouch- 
er  and  was  one  of  the  prized  possessions 
of  the  College  museum.  Partly  divested 
of  its  wrappings  of  fine  linen  turned 
brown  with  the  centuries,  the  body  of 
this  daughter  of  the  Pharaohs  had  been 
exhibited  in  a  glass  case  on  the  second 
floor  of  Goucher  Hall,  while  nearby  had 
been  placed  the  case  in  which  it  had 
rested  for  ages,  a  case  of  wood  painted 
with  figures  and  hieroglyphics  that  told 
the  rank  and  virtues  of  the  little  lady. 

128 


THE    VANISHED    MUMMY. 

The  night  before  at  6  o'clock  the  mummy 
had  been  in  its  place.  In  the  morning 
when  the  janitor's  wife  was  sweeping 
she  discovered  the  glass  lid  prized  open 
and  the  mummy  gone.  The  night  watch- 
man saw  nothing,  heard  nothing. 

"And  what  are  your  theories?"  I  asked 
Borland,  as  we  passed  along  Twenty- 
third  street. 

"That  it  was  taken  to  be  sold  at  a 
good  figure  to  some  other  museum;  that 
it  was  taken  to  be  sold  back  to  the  Col- 
lege; that  it  was  a  students'  prank;  or 
that  it  was  done  by  girls  being  initiated 
into  one  of  the  College  secret  societies." 

When  I  had  been  introduced  to  and 
cordially  welcomed  by  a  trio  of  anxious 
College  officials,  the  dean  hastened  to 
assure  me  of  their  desire  to  avoid  pub- 
licity and  notoriety. 

"Have  you  questioned  any  of  the  girls 
today?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  replied  the  dean;  "it  being  Sat- 
urday, there  have  been  few  of  them 
here,  and  we  have  sent  for  none,  so  that 
the  loss  might  be  kept  secret  until  we 
determine  on  the  motive." 

A  close  examination  of  the  empty  glass 
case  and  its  surroundings  was  fruitless. 
Nor  did  questioning  of  the  janitor  and 
his  wife  elicit  anything  new. 

"You  cleaned  very  thoroughly,"  I  said 
to  the  woman.  "What  did  you  do  with 
the  sweepings?" 

"They're  in  a  box  in  the  basement, 
sir." 

At  my  request  the  box  was  brought 
up.  It  was  a  soap  box  almost  full.  "Are 
these  only  the  sweepings  of  today?"  I 
asked.  The  janitor  spoke  up.  "I  emptied 


THE    VANISHED    MUMMY. 

all  the  others  yesterday,  sir,"  he  de- 
clared. With  this  assurance,  I  plunged 
my  hands  into  the  pile  and  began  a 
minute  and  careful  search  of  it,  dump- 
ing handful  after  handful  on  news- 
papers spread  over  a  table  in  Dr.  Gouch- 
er's  office.  Borland  kept  the  others  in  con- 
versation, and  this  fortunately  enabled 
me  to  make  a  couple  of  finds  unnoticed 
by  them. 

At  the  end  of  10  minutes  I  had  reached 
the  bottom  of  the  box.  Turning  then  to 
the  dean,  I  said: 

"How  many  Canadian  students  have 
you  here?" 

"Canadians?  Oh,  two— Miss  Carothers 
and  Miss  Anstey," 

"And  may  I  see  them?" 

"I  cannot  see" began  the  dean 

warmly. 

I  hastened  to  assure  him  I  had  no 
idea  of  suspecting  them.  "Nevertheless," 
I  added,  "I  should  like  to  question  them. 
I  have  a  theory  that  one  or  the  other 
may  help  me. 

The  dean  was  mollified.  "Miss  Caroth- 
ers has  been  absent  sick  for  several 
days.  Miss  Anstey  you  can  see.  She  ia 
a  charming  girl.  Her  father  is  one  of 
the  leading  Methodist  divines  of  Can- 
ada, and  an  old  friend  of  Dr.  Goucher 
and  myself.  She  does  not  live  in  the 
College  homes,  but  with  a  lady  around 
the  corner  on  Charles  street,  who  is  also 
an  old  family  friend.  I  will  send  you 
there.  She  may  not  be  at  home  just 
now,  but  you  can  try." 

The  janitor's  wife  spoke  up,  "Miss 
Anstey  was  here  an  hour  or  so  ago,  sir. 


130 


THE    VANISHED    MUMMY. 

She  was  upstairs  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  went  out  and  got  in  an  auto  with  a 
young  gentleman." 

"I  will  go  around  to  her  home  at  any 
rate,"  I  said. 

"You  have  very  little  hope  of  finding 
the  mummy,  have  you  not,  Mr.  Mc- 
Iver?"  asked  the  dean,  anxiously. 

"On  the  contrary,"  I  replied  confi- 
dently. "I  expect  to  bring  back  the 
Egyptian  princess  in  an  hour  or  two." 

He  accepted  my  boast  dubiously. 
"Whatever  you  do,"  he  urged,  "use  no 
questionable  methods,  for  the  sake  of 
the  College.  If  you  find  the  thief,  let 
me  decide  whether  to  prosecute  him.  If 
you  can  get  back  the  mummy  without 
injury,  I  would  prefer  to  hush  up  the 
affair." 

I  promised  him  I  would.  "I  consider 
this  a  very  unusual  case,"  I  said,  "and 
I  believe  you  will  be  satisfied  with  my 
disposition  of  it."  With  this  I  left  him. 

Borland  and  the  College  professor  who 
accompanied  us  were  both  eager  to 
know  what  clue  I  had,  but  I  stood  them 
off  as  we  walked  round  to  the  Charles- 
street  dwelling. 

Miss  Anstey  was  out,  as  I  had  an- 
ticipated, but  we  were  graciously  re- 
received  by  Mrs.  Eden,  her  hostess.  It 
was  a  home  of  culture  and  refinement, 
and  the  large  parlor  abounded  in  paint- 
ings, art  objects  and  other  curios  evi- 
dently picked  up  in  foreign  travel.  "I 
expect  Ethel  home  soon,"  said  the 
sweet-faced  and  sweet-voiced  old  lady. 
"She  went  motoring  this  afternoon  with 
a  friend,  and  she  said  she  would  be 


131 


THE    VANISHED    MUMMY. 

home  to  supper." 

"We  called  to  ask,"  I  remarked, 
"whether  she  had  not  lost  this  bit  of 
jewelry."  And  to  the  surprise  of  Dor- 
land  and  the  professor  I  produced  a 
pin  I  had  found  in  the  sweepings  of 
Goucher  Hall,  a  tiny  enameled  maple 
leaf,  set  around  with  pearls. 

"Yes,  that  is  Ethel's!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Eden.  "I  don't  think  she  lost  it,  how- 
ever, for  she  had  recently  loaned  it  to 
a  friend."  She  smiled.  "You  know, 
young  girls  nowadays  have  a  great 
habit  of  exchanging  tokens  like  this 
with  young  men.  It  was  not  so  in  my 
day." 

"And  if  I  be  not  rude,"  I  continued, 
"may  I  not  know  the  name  of  this  young 
man?" 

"Why,  certainly,"  replied  the  lady. 
"He  is  Mr.  Raymond  Harding." 

"You  mean,"  I  inquired,  "the  son  of 
Mr.  Harding,  the  bank  president?"  The 
Hardings,  as  everybody  knows,  are 
among  the  best-known  millionaire  fam- 
ilies in  Baltimore  society. 

"The  same,"  replied  Mrs.  Eden.  "Miss 
Anstey  and  he  have  been  friends  for  a 
couple  of  years.  I  am  sure  both  will  be 
grateful  to  you  for  finding  this  pin. 
Now  that  I  recall  it,  it  may  be  that  they 
have  already  had  words  about  it  being 
lost.  He  was  here  last  evening  and  they 
were  both  rather  excited.  At  breakfast 
Ethel  complained  of  having  a  headache 
and  looked  as  though  she  had  been  cry- 
ing. They  called  each  other  up  several 
times  by  'phone  during  the  morning, 
but  Ethel  told  me  nothing,  and  I 
thought  it  tactful  to  say  nothing  to  her. 


THE    VANISHED    MUMMY. 

When  he  came  this  afternoon  I  told  her 
she  looked  so  pale  she  ought  to  rest,  but 
she  laughed  me  off." 

"We  will  come  again  after  they  have 
returned,"  I  said  to  Mrs.  Eden  as  I  rose 
to  go.  "Perhaps,  as  you  say,  I  may  be 
able  to  straighten  out  the  little  trouble. 
Meanwhile,  I  would  suggest  that  you 
say  nothing  to  them." 

It  had  grown  dark  when  we  stepped 
outside.  Dorland  gripped  my  hand 
warmly.  "Mclver,"he  exclaimed,  "you're 
a  wonder!  I  see  the  whole  case  now. 
Gee,  but  its  a  rum  affair!" 

The  professor  was  mystified.  "I  don't 
quite  see,  gentlemen,  how  the  whole 
affair  is  settled.  Where  is  the  mummy? 
And  who  was  the  thief?" 

"The  mummy,  professor,"  I  remarked, 
oracularly,  "is  most  probably  in  the  auto- 
mobile of  Mr.  Raymond  Harding." 

"You  don't  mean  that  he  is  the  thief?" 

"I  believe  he  took  the  mummy.  I  be- 
lieve he  dropped  the  pin  in  doing  it. 
This  also  fell  out  of  his  auto  cap."  I 
produced  a  gilt  paper  initial  "H,"  such 
as  hatters  put  in  headwear  for  their  cus- 
tomers. It  was  my  second  find  in  the 
sweepings. 

"But  the  motive,  man,  the  motive!" 
persisted  the  professor.  "Why  should 
a  millionaire's  son  break  into  a  Wom- 
an's College  building  to  steal  a  mummy? 
It  sounds  ridiculous." 

"That,  sir,  is  the  part  I  want  Miss  An- 
stey  to  explain.  It  is  the  only  element 
of  doubt  in  a  perfectly  plain  chain  of 
circumstances.  Raymond  Harding  I  know 
slightly,  and  he  has  a  certain  reputation 
for  reckless  pranks,  although  he's  not  a 


133 


THE    VANISHED    MUMMY. 

bad  fellow." 

"But  surely  you  don't  suspect  Ethel 
Anstey.  Why,  man,  she's  a" 

The  mournful  notes  of  a  Gabriel's  horn 
down  at  Twenty-second  street  betokened 
the  approach  of  an  auto,  and  interrupt- 
ed the  professor's  eulogium  of  one  who 
was  manifestly  a  favorite  pupil.  "Quick!" 
I  exclaimed;  "saunter  to  the  corner."  A 
big  touring  car  came  up  Charles  street 
and  stopped  in  front  of  the  Eden  home. 
A  slender  young  chap  stepped  out  and 
aided  a  young  lady  to  descend.  They 
stood  for  a  minute  on  the  curb  beside 
the  machine — undecided,  as  I  figured  out, 
whether  the  mummy  would  be  safe  there 
if  left  alone— and  then  both  passed  into 
the  house. 

The  three  of  us  with  one  accord 
moved  down  the  pavement.  "Look  on 
the  rear  seat,  Borland,"  I  said,  as  the 
headquarters  man  ran  to  the  auto.  A 
great  part  of  my  confidence  in  my  well- 
developed  solution  of  the  mystery  would 
have  gone  to  smash  if  the  mummy  had 
not  been  there.  But  Borland  gave  a  lit- 
tle cry  of  triumph.  "It's  here,  all  right," 
he  called,  "wrapped  up  in  a  rubber 
blanket."  We  tried  to  lift  the  bundle, 
but  the  petrified  daughter  of  the  Pha- 
raohs was  heavier  than  he  had  calcu- 
lated. "Be  careful,  Mr.  Borland,"  the 
professor  entreated;  "don't  smash  her." 

"Now  for  the  young  man,"  said  Bor- 
land, jumping  down  to  the  curb. 

"No,"  said  I.  "I  have  a  better  plan. 
Can  you  run  an  auto?" 

Borland  could. 

"And  have  you  a  key  toGoucherHall?" 
I  asked  the  professor. 

134 


THE    VANISHED    MUMMY. 

The  professor  had. 

"Then  you  two  quietly  take  the  mum- 
my back  to  her  box  while  I  go  in  and 
question  Misa  Anstey." 

They  got  off  without  fuss,  and  when 
I  had  seen  them  turn  the  corner  I  rang 
the  bell  and  asked  for  Miss  Anstey.  In 
placing  my  hat  on  the  hallrack  I  moved 
Harding's  cap  to  another  peg  and  ob- 
served, as  I  had  thought,  that  the  "H" 
had  parted  company  with  the  other  gilt 
initials. 

I  feit  unfeignedly  sorry  for  the  girl 
when  she  came  into  the  parlor  a  few 
minutes  later.  She  •  had  fine  regular 
features,  and  with  her  limpid  blue  eyes 
was  unquestionably  pretty  when  the 
flush  of  youth  and  vivacity  had  full 
play.  But  that  day  there  were  dark  cir- 
cles under  her  eyes,  her  lids  were  sus- 
piciously red  and  there  was  a  pallid  hue 
in  her  cheeks  that  was  accentuated  by 
the  dark  blue  silk  suit  she  wore.  A 
novice  at  reading  character  could  have 
told  she  had  been  spending  hours  in 
worry  and  tears. 

"You  wished  to  see  me?"  she  said,  in- 
quiringly, as  she  slowly  advanced  to 
where  I  had  risen  to  meet  her. 

"To  return  this,"  I  answered.  And  I 
held  out  the  maple  leaf  pin  to  her. 

She  grew,  if  possible,  more  white  and 
sought  the  help  of  the  piano  to  support 
herself. 

"I— I— It  is  not Where  did  you  get 

it?"  she  said,  with  several  gulps  to  keep 
down  the  sobs. 

"It  was  found  in  Goucher  Hall  near 
the  mummy  case." 

She    stepped    back    uncertainly.    Then 


THE    VANISHED    MUMMY. 

she  pulled  herself  together. 

"You  are  a  detective?" 

I  winced.  "No,"  I  said;  "I  am  a  friend 
of  the  College  and  of  Mr.  Harding's." 

At  the  mention  of  his  name  she  broke 
down  completely  and,  sinking  on  the 
stool,  leaned  her  head  and  began  to  cry. 
"Oh,  Raymond!"  I  heard  her  say.  "It 
means  disgrace.  It  means  the  peniten- 
tiary." Her  form  shook  violently  with 
her  emotion.  It  was  more  than  I  could 
stand. 

"Listen,  Miss  Anstey,"  I  said,  and  I 
laid  my  hand  lightly  on  her  shoulder. 
"It  means  nothing  of  the  kind.  You 
have  my  word  as  a  gentleman  that  no 
one  shall  know  the  story  save  the  two 
or  three  who  already  know  it." 

She  lifted  her  tear-stained  face  and 
studied  me  earnestly.  "It  was  a  mad 
prank,"  she  sobbed.  "I  am  to  blame. 
I  ought  to  be  punished.  It  started  as  a 
joke.  I  had  no  idea  he'd  do  it." 

"Call  Raymond  down." 

She  went  out  into  the  hallway  and  a 
whistled  signal  brought  Harding  to  us. 
When  he  entered  the  parlor  his  surprise 
at  seeing  me  was  great. 

"He  knows  about  the  mummy,"  said 
the  girl  faintly. 

Harding  stepped  away  from  us  both. 
"He  knows?" 

"Yes,  he  wants  to  help  us." 

"I  want  to  get  you  out  of  a  nasty 
scrape,  Raymond,"  I  remarked. 

The  boy  eyed  me  intently.  Then  he 
put  out  his  hand  and  gripped  mine. 
"Thank  you,  Mclver,"  he  said,  simply. 
And  the  three  of  us  sitting  down,  the 
boy  and  the  girl  told  me  the  whole  truth 


136 


THE    VANISHED    MUMMY. 

about  the  kidnapping  of  the  Egyptian 
princess.  Each  supplied  parts  of  the 
narrative.  Raymond,  I  learned,  had 
prized  open  the  case  on  a  visit  to  the 
College  museum  on  Friday  afternoon  and 
had  then  secreted  himself  in  the  build- 
ing. When  the  watchman  was  in  a  re- 
mote corner,  it  had  taken  but  a  minute 
to  lift  the  mummy,  carry  it  downstairs, 
unlock  the  north  door  and  slip  out  to 
where  he  had  left  his  auto.  "Then  he 
came  here  to  show  it  to  me,"  said  Miss 
Anstey.  "And  then  I  went  to  take  it 
back,"  pursued  the  boy.  "And,  Lord, 
Mclver,  I  found  the  watchman  had 
locked  the  door.  Ever  since  then  we've 
been  in  an  awful  fright.  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do  with  the  bloody  thing." 

"What  on  earth  made  you  take  it?"  I 
asked. 

The  boy  turned  a  troubled  eye  on  the 
girl.  "I  did  it  on  a  dare,"  he  said  after  a 
pause. 

A  rosy  flush  had  replaced  her  pallor. 
"That  isn't  the  whole  truth,  Mr.  Mc- 
lver," she  said.  "There  was  a  wager, 
and  a  lot  of  teasing,  and  talk  about  a 
kiss.  It  sounds  so  silly  now,  but  it  was 
all  in  fun.  I  didn't  expect  him  to  do  it. 
And,  oh!  how  sorry  I  am!" 

"The  question  is,  Mclver,"  said  the 
boy,  "how  on  earth  am  I  to  get  it  back." 

"That's  the  easiest  part,"  I  said.  "In 
fact,  it  is  already  back."  I  paused  to 
enjoy  their  pleased  surprise.  "And  if  I 
mistake  not  here  are  the  two  gentlemen 
that  did  it."  The  doorbell  had  rung  and 
I  stepped  out  to  admit  Dorland  and  the 
professor. 


137 


THE    VANISHED    MUMMY. 

The  next  15  minutes  was  a  medley  of 
questions,  of  explanations,  of  promises 
to  keep"  mum  and  of  expressions  of 
heartfelt  thanks  from  the  young  couple. 
The  professor  was  the. only  one  who 
thought  it  incumbent  to  scold  them  for  a 
silly  prank  and  to  point  out  the  serious 
danger  in  which  they  had  been  involved. 
It  sobered  them,  and  at  the  same  time  it 
made  them  realize  what  a  tremendous 
service  I  had  done  them, 

One  point  puzzled  Dorland.  When  we 
had  left  the  house  and  parted  from  the 
professor,  he  asked  me: 

"How  on  earth  did  you  know  that  pin 
was  Miss  Anstey's?" 

"Had  it  been  a  thistle  design,"  I  said, 
"I  should  have  begun  a  search  for  that 
'bonnie  sweet  lass,  the  Maid  o'  Dundee." 

"I  don't  exactly  see,"  he  ejaculated. 

"The  maple  leaf,  my  son,  is  the  na- 
tional emblem  of  Canada." 

"Ah,"  said  Dorland,  "that's  what  you 
get  by  book-larnin'." 

"Yes,"  I  admitted;  "it  helps  some." 


138 


"Mount  Vernon  J-0-0-0" 

They  were  getting  to  the  sad  point 
where  each  was  growing  tired  of  the 
other.  The  crescendo  of  love's  young 
dream  had  passed.  Bach  was  sub-con- 
sciously realizing  that  while  the  spring- 
time of  their  romance  had  been  full  of 
glorious  days  the  summer  was  destined 
to  be  damp  and  showery.  Daniel  was 
beginning  to  find  faults  in  Jennie  that  he 
had  not  believed  could  exist  in  her,  and 
Jennie  in  turn  was  more  and  more  pro- 
voked with  Daniel,  more  and  more  ex- 
acting in  what  she  required  of  him,  and 
more  and  more  disposed  to  accuse  hirri 
of  not  keeping  up  with  the  devoted  pacd 
he  had  set  when  he  first  began  to  paj; 
her  definite  attentions  the  winter  before. 
Daniel  sometimes  would  dance  with 
other  girls,  a  thing  he  had  not  dreamt 
of  doing  in  the  heyday  of  their  affair, 
and  Jennie  did  not  hesitate  to  accept  in- 
vitations from  men  who  were  as  defer- 
ential and  admiring  as  Daniel  had  been 
in  the  beginning.  Their  friends,  those  at 
least  who  were  discerning,  realized  that 
the  probability  of  a  marriage  between 
them  was  becoming  more  and  more  re- 
mote. 

Jennie  and  her  parents  were  spending 
the  summer  at  Mount  Holly  Inn,  and, 
among  other  instances  of  his  growing 
restiveness,  Daniel  was  inclined  to  grum- 
ble at  having  to  bolt  his  dinner,  dress 


139 


"MOUNT  VERNON   1-0-0-0." 

hurriedly  in  his  sun-baked  room  on  Park 
avenue,  and  make  the  suburban  car 
journey  nightly  in  order  to  reach  her 
side.  Sometimes  he  balked  and  called 
her  up  by  'phone  instead,  and  though  she 
professed  her  disappointment  and  scold- 
ed him,  he  was  almost  sure  to  learn  the 
next  day  she  had  enjoyed  her  evening 
at  dancing  or  bowling.  Then  again  there 
were  occasions  when  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  be  on  hand,  according  to  prom- 
ise, and  had  started  to  get  ready  when 
called  off  by  a  message  from  Jennie,  tell- 
ing him  that  she  had  been  invited  to  en- 
joy a  moonlight  auto  spin  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Chester,  fellow-guests  with  whom 
she  had  grown  most  friendly. 

And  so  it  came  to  an  evening  in  Sep- 
tember when  Daniel  and  Jennie  had  not 
seen  each  other  for  as  many  as  three 
days,  the  longest  period  of  absence  in 
the  history  of  their  attachment.  Work 
was  slack  with  the  trust  company  that 
day,  and  Daniel  had  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity to  leave  the  Equitable  Building 
early  and  see  the  Baltimores  inflict  a  de- 
feat on  the  Buffalo  nine  at  Union  Park, 
in  the  homestretch  of  the  pennant  race. 
As  he  was  cutting  across  lots  after  the 
game,  hurrying  to  catch  a  St.  Paul-street 
car  ahead  of  the  crowd,  he  ran  into  Tom 
Oliver,  and  from  the  moment  of  the  en- 
counter realized  that  it  was  all  off  for  a 
visit  to  Mount  Holly  that  night.  For 
Tom  was  a  jolly  soul  and  a  generous  one, 
and  they  had  been  strong  chums  before 
Tom  had  struck  out  into  the  wilds  of 
West  Virginia  for  a  lumber  company.  So 
that  when  Master  Thomas,  as  expected, 
proposed  that  they  make  an  evening  of 


140 


"MOUNT   VERNON    1-0-0-0." 

it,  for  old  times'  sake,  with  dinner  at  the 
Belvedere  and  a  jaunt  later  to  River 
View,  Electric  Park  or  the  Suburban, 
Daniel's  demur  that  he  already  had  an 
engagement  was  a  very  weak  one  in- 
deed. It  was,  in  fact,  such  a  wobbly  lit- 
tle demur  that  one  more  word  from  Tom 
and  he  had  promised  to  call  up  and  break 
the  date.  He  did  not  mention  that  it  was 
with  Jennie,  for  Jennie  had  come  into 
Daniel's  life  after  Tom  had  vanished  into 
the  timber  forest. 

Half  an  hour  later  found  him  in  the 
telephone-room  of  the  Belvedere.  The 
trimly  dressed  young  woman  who  took 
his  money  gave  him  no  second  glance  as 
she  automatically  murmured  "Walbrook 
1-8-6,  please,"  into  the  mouthpiece  hang- 
ing before  her,  and  an  instant  later,  just 
as  automatically,  waved  him  into  one  of 
the  booths  against  the  wall. 

He  had  not  fully  made  up  his  mind 
what  excuse  he  would  give  Jennie  for 
staying  away,  and  the  wait  after  a  bell- 
boy at  Mount  Holly  Inn  had  been  sent  to 
find  Miss  Jennie  gave  him  time  to  think 
this  over.  Two  nights  before  he  had 
'phoned  her  that  he  was  working  late  at 
the  office.  That  would  not  do  again. 
Still,  he  felt  that  he  could  not  well  tell 
the  truth  and  say  an  intimate  friend 
from  West  Virginia  had  turned  up.  Ulti- 
mately, he  reached  the  conclusion  that  it 
was  best  to  say  he  was  not  feeling  well, 
even  though  he  ran  the  risk  that  some 
friend  of  hers,  or  some  guest  at  Mount 
Holly  who  knew  him,  might  have  seen 
him  at  the  ball  game  that  afternoon  and 
might  mention  it. 

There    came   a    feminine    voice    across 


"MOUNT   VERNON   1-0-0-0." 

the  wire.  Daniel  perceived  at  once  that 
it  was  not  Jennie,  but  her  mother. 

"Is  that  you,  Mr.  Carey?"  she  in- 
quired, rather  coolly.  Jennie's  mother 
was  one  of  those  mothers  who  are  jeal- 
ous of  every  young  man  who  pays  their 
daughters  attention,  for  fear  that  some 
day  Mr.  Wright  will  come  along  and 
take  the  daughter  away. 

"Yes,  it  is  I,  Mrs.  Poppleton,"  he  re- 
plied. "I  asked  for  Miss  Jennie." 

"She  has  gone  out,  Mr.  Carey.  She 
telephoned  this  afternoon  to  your  office 
and  your  home,  but  you  were  not  at 
either  place.  She  was  invited  out  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chester,  and  said  she 
knew  you  would  excuse  her,  but  please 
to  call  up  Mount  Vernon  one  thousand 
and  ask  them  to  send  for  her." 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Poppleton.  What 
number  did  you  say  it  was?" 

"Mount  Vernon  one  thousand." 

"Thank  you.    Goodby." 

After  he  had  hung  up  the  receiver, 
Daniel  sat  for  a  moment  in  the  booth, 
undecided  whether  to  pursue  Jennie 
further  by  wire.  He  was  inclined  to 
feel  miffed  that  she  was  not  demurely 
waiting  for  him.  Then  his  sense  of  fair 
play  got  the  better  of  his  selfishness, 
and  he  reflected  that  after  all  she  was 
doing  only  what  he  had  called  her  up 
to  say  he  was  going  to  do.  He  lifted 
the  receiver. 

"Mount  Vernon  one  thousand,  please," 
he  asked,  when  the  operator  outside  had 
acknowledged  his  call. 

"What  number  did  you  say?"  she 
queried.  Her  tone  was  sharp,  as  though 


142 


"MOUNT  VERNON   1-0-0-0." 

surprised  or  puzzled. 

"Mount  Vernon  one  thousand." 
There  was  a  pause,  but  Daniel  could 
not  hear  any  click  or  other  sound  to  in- 
dicate that  she  was  trying  to  give  him 
the  connection.  Finally  he  heard  her 
ask  slowly: 

"Whom  do  you  wish  to  speak  to?" 
"To      Miss      Poppleton,"      he      replied, 
"who  is  taking  dinner  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Chester." 

"Just  hold  the  line,  please." 
The  second  wait  for  Jennie  seemed 
longer  than  the  first,  and  Daniel  not 
only  grew  restive  in  the  booth,  but  be- 
gan again  to  asseverate  that  Jennie  had 
not  behaved  quite  properly  by  him.  If 
she  was  out  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chester 
for  a  good  time,  it  was  dollars  to 
doughnuts  that  a  fourth  member  of  the 
party  was  that  chap  Pratt.  Jennie  was 
going  altogether  too  much  with  the  fel- 
low anyhow,  and  though  he  was  an  ill- 
mannered  cur  (this  was  Daniel's  opin- 
ion), he  had  money,  and  seemed  to  be 
pretty  popular  with  other  people.  He 
certainly  was  blamed  popular  with  Jen- 
nie and  the  Chesters.  Confound  it  all, 
the  Chesters  were  not  so  many!  (this 
also  was  Daniel's  opinion). 

There  is  no  telling  to  what  lengths  he 

might   have   gone   had   not   the   voice  of 

Jennie   sailed   sweetly   over   the   wire   at 

this  juncture.   He  knew  it  to  be  Jennie 

instantaneously;    never    had    her    tones 

sounded  so  clear  and  close.  It  was  as  if 

she  were  only  a  few  feet  away. 

"Is  that  you,  Dan?"  he  heard  her  say. 

"Yes,      Jennie,"      he      replied;      "your 

143 


"MOUNT   VERNON   1-0-0-0." 

mother  gave  me  your  message  to  call 
you  up." 

After  this  came  a  pause,  a  bit  of  awk- 
wardness, due  to  the  fact  that  each 
was  fencing  for  the  best  position  to 
deliver  his  or  her  excuse  for  not  coming 
up  to  the  mark  that  evening.  It  was 
Jennie  who  spoke  first. 

"You  did  not  intend  to  come  out  to 
the  hotel  tonight?" 

Daniel  had  an  inspiration. 

"Yes,  I  had  a  little  surprise  for  you. 
You  remember  hearing  me  talk  of  Tom 
Oliver,  who  used  to  be  one  of  my 
closest  friends.  Well,  he's  in  town  today 
and  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  I  might 
not  bring  him  out  and  present  him." 

"Oh!  I'm  so  sorry."  Then  after  a 
pause,  as  if  an  idea  had  occurred  to  her, 
she  asked: 

"Where  are  you  now?" 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  say 
the  Belvedere,  but  he  reflected  quickly 
that  if  he  did  Jennie's  tone  of  sorrow 
was  so  apparently  sincere  that  she  might 
propose  to  hurry  back  to  Mount  Holly 
and  be  ready  to  receive  them.  And  this, 
he  knew,  would  not  fall  in  with  Tom 
Oliver's  notion  of  a  "fine,  large  even- 
ing." So  he  fibbed  unreservedly. 

"Oh!  we're  down  to  the  Baltimore 
Yacht  Club." 

That  was  about  as  far  as  it  was  con- 
venient to  transport  himself  beyond  the 
radius  of  accessibility  to  Mount  Holly. 

"My!  your  voice  sounds  distinct  for 
that  distance,"  remarked  Jennie. 

"Yes,  doesn't  it?"   replied  Daniel. 

Then  he  took  up  her  story. 


144 


"MOUNT   VERNON   1-0-0-0." 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chester  had  an  anni- 
versary today,  a  wedding  anniversary, 
and  they  invited  us  to  celebrate  it  with 
them  by  a  long  motor  trip  and  a  little 
supper.  I'm  having  a  fine  time." 

"Who   is   us?" 

The  answer  he  got  he  expected. 

"Why,  those  two,  and  myself  and  Mr. 
Pratt." 

He  gritted  his  teeth  to  keep  his  jeal- 
ousy from  vocal  expression. 

"What  did  you  say?"  queried  Jennie 
sweetly  from  the  other  end. 

"Nothing,"    responded    Daniel,    grimly. 

"I'll  have  to  be  going.  They're  waiting 
supper  for  me." 

"May  I  come  out  tomorrow  night?" 

"No,  Mr.  Pratt  has  invited  us  to  a 
launch  party." 

Daniel  burst  out: 

"Pratt!  Pratt!  It's  always  that  blamed 
fool!" 

"See  here,  Daniel  Carey,  you  nor  no 
other  man  can  take  that  tone  with  me, 
I'll  have  you  know.  You  can  stay  away 
now  until  you  get  over  that  silly  jeal- 
ousy." 

"But,  Jennie" He  heard  a  click,  and 

knew  for  a  certainty  that  she  had  hung 
up  the  receiver  on  him.  Twice  he  hur- 
riedly called  her  name,  and,  getting  no 
reply,  angrily  jammed  his  own  receiver 
on  its  hook  and  rose  to  leave  the  booth. 

As  he  turned  he  got  the  biggest  shock 
of  his  young  life. 

For,  mind  you,  there  was  Jennie  Pop- 
pleton  coming  out  of  another  booth. 

There  was  no  mistaking  her.  She  had 
on  the  well-remembered  light-blue  prin- 

145 


"MOUNT   VERNON   1-0-0-0." 

cess  gown  in  which  he  had  told  her  she 
looked  so  pretty,  and  the  long  white  kid 
gloves  he  had  bought  her  for  a  philo- 
pena  debt.  And  as  she  walked  quickly 
out  of  the  telephone  room  and  disap- 
peared down  the  corridor  without  look- 
ing back,  her  carriage  was  that  grace- 
ful one  that  had  always  pleased  him. 

Daniel  fell  back  into  the  booth  seat  in 
sheer  desperation.  Great  Caesar!  what 
a  close  shave  he  had  had!  Suppose  he 
had  run  into  Jennie  just  then,  after  tell- 
ing her  he  was  down  the  river!  Whew! 

Presently  it  occurred  to  him  that  Jen- 
nie was  practising  as  much  deception  as 
he.  She  had  left  word  for  him  to  call 
up  "Mount  Vernon  one  thousand."  Where 
in  the  deuce  was  "Mount  Vernon  one 
thousand"?  He  looked  at  the  number 
card  in  the  booth  and  got  another  shock. 
It  read  as  plain  as  day: 

"Mount  Vernon  1000." 

"What  a  bally  idiot  I  am!"  he  mut- 
tered. "Know  the  Belvedere  number  as 
well  as  my  own  home.  Always  called  it 
'Mount  Vernon  ten  hundred'  or  'Mount 
Vernon  one-o-double  o.'  Dumb  jackass! 
Gee!  what  a  close  shave!  Wonder  Jen- 
nie didn't  see  me  when  she  went  in  that 
other  booth." 

Then  the  funny  side  of  it  struck  him, 
and  he  laid  his  head  on  the  desk  and 
laughed  unrestrainedly.  Was  ever  a 
contretemps  more  ridiculous? 

When  he  at  last  emerged  from  the 
booth  the  demure  operator  looked  up  at 
him  without  the  trace  of  a  smile. 

"Twenty  cents,  please,"  she  said. 

"It's  worth  more  than  that,"  remarked 
Daniel  cheerfully.  "Gosh,  but  you're  a 


146 


"MOUNT  VERNON   1-0-0-0." 

wonder!  I  take  off  my  hat  to  you."  He 
made  a  low  sweeping  bow. 

The  girl  smiled.  "It  was  funny,"  she 
admitted. 

"How  on  earth  did  you  manage  it?" 

"You  asked  for  somebody  at  'Mount 
Vernon  one-o-double-o',  didn't  you?  You 
got  them,  didn't  you?" 

"All  the  same,  you're  a  wonder!"  he 
rejoined,  with  undisguised  admiration. 

An  incoming  call  enabled  her  to  turn 
aside  the  flush  that  rose  to  her  cheeks. 
When  she  had  attended  to  it  she  glanced 
up  again  at  Carey  with  her  prior  calm- 
ness. 

"Which  do  you  prefer,"  he  asked, 
"candy  or  a  pair  of  those  long  gloves?" 

"Candy  isn't  good  for  the  complexion." 

Daniel  noted  her  fine  color,  then  prom- 
ised the  gloves.  He  was  about  to  say 
more  when  Tom  Oliver  bolted  into  the 
room. 

"Say,  old  man,"  he  cried,  "when  on 
earth  will  you  be  through  here?  There's 
the  prettiest  girl  in  the  tearoom,  and 
maybe  you  know  her.  I've  ordered  sup- 
per over  there,  so  I  can  look  at  her." 

"What  is  she  wearing?"  asked  Daniel, 
with  a  note  of  alarm. 

"She's  a  vision  in  light  blue." 

The  hello  girl  looked  quizzically  at 
Daniel  and  it  was  Daniel's  turn  to  flush. 

"I  can't  eat  supper  there,  Tom,"  he 
said,  slowly.  "Fact  is,  I'd  rather  be 
anywhere  else  than  in  that  room." 

"But  why?"   persisted  Tom. 

"You  tell  him,"  said  Daniel  to  the 
telephone  girl. 

"He  has  an  engagement  at  South  six- 
eight-k." 

147 


"MOUNT  VERNON   1-0-0-0." 

The  mystified  Tom  eyed  first  one,  then 
the  other. 

"What  on  earth  is  that?"  he  asked. 

"The  Baltimore  Yacht  Club." 

He  was  still  unenlightened. 

"But  why" he  began. 

"Come  on,  old  hayseed,"  said  Daniel, 
taking  Tom's  arm.  "Let's  go  into  the 
palmroom,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"I'll  call  you  up  tomorrow  to  get  your 
size  for  the  gloves,"  he  remarked  to  the 
telephone  genius  as  he  bade  her  good 
night. 

"You  know  what  number  to  call?" 

"Am  I  likely  to  forget  it?"  he  asked. 


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